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Lanthorn

“Hold out the plan-scroll, boys,” says Captain Lanthorn, and her first mates stretch the saurian form across the empty little shop.

“It’s been long since I designed at such a scale,” frets the old clockmaker, twitching once a second. “I can’t guarantee it will work!”

“Of course it will,” she murmurs. “It’s perfect, isn’t it, boys? And now, unique.”

Cutpenny binds his wrists and gags his mouth. Curl snaps the cord for the heart-key from around his neck.

It’s six days before anyone finds the body. Around him, dragons of teak and rosewood are just beginning to wind down.

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