The Wistful Skyline
You are holding the vial too tightly, Thomas, and the glass is cutting a red line into your palm, yet you do not feel the pain, only the cold seep of the liquid through the paper wrapping. The magistrate’s study is dark, save for the single tallow candle that sputters in the draft, casting long, distorted shadows that seem to stretch toward the door where you stand. I have told you, Thomas, the...
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