The Distant Crown
Act I Every machine, given enough time, forgets its purpose. Gustave Chevalier knew this because he had spent twenty years repairing them, his hands blackened by the grease of dead engines in the reclamation yards of the Seventh Arrondissement. Now, at forty-two, he stood in the sealed archive of the Ministry, the air thick with the dust of paper and the faint, metallic tang of rust. He...
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