The Wistful Mountain
The tincture will not hold, Elias. You know it will not hold." Magistrate Halloway stood in the doorway of the apothecary, his coat dripping wet onto the flagstones, the sound of the rain against the glass a dull, rhythmic thumping that seemed to sync with the pounding in Elias’s own chest. He did not step inside. He remained on the threshold, a silhouette cut from the grey twilight, his face...
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