//CLARA//
The warehouse had been transformed. Gaslights flickered along the iron columns, casting long shadows across the faces of the most powerful men in New York. The Linotype sat in the center, draped in velvet like a sleeping titan.
I found Oliver hovering near his machine. He was a nervous wreck wrapped in a well-tailored suit, but the man inside was coming apart. His tie was askew, his hair looked like he'd been running his hands through it for hours, and his eyes were wide with the particular terror of a man about to face the judgment of everyone who had ever doubted him.
"Eleanor." He grabbed my hands. His palms were damp. "The machine. What if the lead doesn't reach temperature? What if the matrices clog? What if the whole thing just… explodes in front of the Times?"
"Oliver." I squeezed his fingers, hard. "Look at me. You look dashing."
"I don't care how I look! The molds—"
