The Wistful Show
My hands were already deep in the entrails of the great clock when the steward entered, his boots scraping against the soot-blackened stone with a sound like dry leaves tearing. I did not look up; I was too busy wrestling with the escapement, that delicate heart of the machine which beat out the seconds of a city that was slowly starving for power. The air in the tower was heavy with oil and...
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