The Distant Promise
The paper lay on the desk, a crisp rectangle of white against the dark mahogany, and I read the refusal three times, my eyes sliding over the ink as if it were a foreign language I had once mastered but now could no longer decipher. It was a standard form, printed in a typeface so severe it seemed to carve the air, stating that the private apothecary at Blackwood Hall would remain locked until...
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