The Distant Threshold
The air in the apothecary smelled of dried lavender and stale wax, a scent that clung to the back of Will’s throat like a persistent cough, and he stood before the mirror, his hands trembling so violently that the silver clasp of his mother’s shawl, a relic of her final, feverish days, slipped from his fingers and struck the glass with a sharp, crystalline ping. "You are shaking again, Will,"...
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