The Pale Protocol
The first gear was cold, colder than the iron it was cut from, and it took three seconds to settle into the escapement. You counted the seconds in your head, a habit from your father’s workshop in Leeds, where time was measured in shillings and sweat. Now, in the vaulted silence of the King’s new palace, time was measured in the tick of the Grand Meridian Clock, a beast of brass and oak that...
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