The Golden Suspect
The bell above the door did not ring; it groaned, a low, wooden moan that seemed to vibrate in the teeth of every man present. I stood at the counter, my hands still stained with the amber residue of varnish, watching the dust motes dance in the shaft of afternoon light that pierced the gloom of the apothecary’s back room. "You are the one," a voice said from the shadows. It was not a question....
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