The Wistful Cipher
The smell of burnt sugar and ozone hung thick in the air, a cloying veil that clung to the back of Margaret’s throat as she stood before the high, arched window of the apothecary, watching the rain lash against the glass with a violence that seemed personal, as if the sky itself were accusing her of a crime she had not yet fully understood. She held the small, brass-topped jar of lavender...
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