The Golden Oath
The cellar of the St. Jude’s Infirmary smelled of damp stone and the sharp, medicinal tang of tinctures, a scent that had long since become indistinguishable from the iron taste of old blood. Thomas Bradshaw, a man whose mind was a labyrinth of archaic texts and whose hands were steady as a surgeon’s, stood before the central workbench, his eyes fixed not on the mortar and pestle, but on the...
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