The Distant Clue
The air in the Great Hall of the Alchemist’s Guild did not smell of sulfur or rot, as the common folk of London might have expected for a place where the laws of nature were bent and broken, but rather of stale yeast and the heavy, cloying sweetness of overripe plums, a scent that hung thick in the low-hanging mist of the industrial age and seemed to cling to the wool of one’s coat long after...
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