Tina spun, duster raised like a sword. A small, spider-like automaton clung to the adjacent gear. Its single ruby eye flickered weakly. This was Pipsqueak, the Viscount’s long-forgotten clockwork valet, half-crushed in a wardrobe accident forty years ago.

Behind her, the Grand Clockwork Estate ticked once—a single, perfect note—and then fell still forever.

“I know,” she said again, softer.

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