The Distant Metropolis
Estrella Quintero had nine fingers on her left hand, a fact that made the needle slip more often than not, and she sat in the cold of her workshop at one hundred and twenty-six of NineElm Crossing, waiting for the Friday deadline to break her. The room smelled of stale tea and the damp wool of the commission, a heavy thing that had been waiting for her hands for three weeks. Outside, the grey...
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