The Golden Harbor
The vial of clearing oil weighed four ounces in your palm, a cold, dense weight that felt less like liquid and more like a solidified promise, and you held it up to the guttering tallow light to check the viscosity, the amber fluid swirling with a sluggish, oily grace that spoke of age and distillation. It was the hour before dawn, the light in the high tower of the Abbey of St. Jude a thin,...
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