The Golden Suspect
The root is not a root, it is a tooth, and it smells of copper pennies and dried lavender, a scent that clings to the back of the throat like a lie you have already told. "Grind it finer, Elias," the King’s voice rasps from the shadows of the antechamber, a sound like sand dragged over stone, and you obey, the pestle moving in a circular motion that has worn a groove in the marble mortar so...
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