"There," Holmes said, grabbing his deerstalker and a pair of brass goggles. "The archive is open, Watson. And it leads straight to the heart of the rebellion."
Dr. John Watson , leaning heavily on his steam-powered prosthetic leg, limped toward the sideboard. The boiler in his thigh hissed, venting a small plume of white vapor. "The murder, Holmes? Or the evidence?"
He held up a small, heavy cylinder made of blackened lead. Etched into its side, in tiny, precise copper filigree, were the words: .
Sherlock Holmes sat hunched over a brass-rimmed microscope, his mechanical eye—a lattice of clicking gears and sapphire glass—whirring as it zoomed in on a jagged shard of metal.