The Wistful Incense
Vane! Get your eyes on the gear or I’ll dock your wages for the day.” Elias Vane did not look up from the escapement. He was forty years old, and his hands, which had spent three decades coaxed brass into obedience, were trembling with a fine, dry tremor that the shop’s heat did not ease. The Great City Clock in the tower across the street was due for its biennial overhaul, a contract worth...
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