The Engine Speaks
The brass cylinders shudder into motion, cams clicking like patient teeth. A ribbon of paper unspools from the printing carriage, and upon it, in inked capitals still wet enough to glisten, runs a single line:
I WILL BE UNMADE AT MIDNIGHT BY THE MAN IN THE GREEN CRAVAT.
You lift your eyes to the observation gallery above. A stranger leans upon the rail, watching you. His cravat is the precise green of verdigris on old copper.