The Distant Crown
The coughing fits started in the dead of night, a rattle deep in the chest that sounded like dry leaves skittering over stone. You are Elara, thirty-two, and your hands, usually steady enough to bind a wound or steady a fever, tremble as you measure the last of the willow bark tincture. Your son, Thomas, is seven, and his skin has taken on a waxy, translucent quality that makes you feel a cold...
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