The Golden Cellar
The air in the cellar tasted of iron and old rain. It was a thick, viscous flavor that coated the tongue, distinct from the dust and damp that usually hung in the lower levels of the Whitmore estate. Julian stood before the glass jars, his fingers trembling not from cold, but from a sudden, violent urge to break them. He was a man of letters, a scholar of taxonomy and botany, accustomed to the...
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