The Faded Shield
In the year of our Lord 1348, the air in the cellar of St. Jude’s Infirmary tasted of damp stone and crushed rosemary, a scent that Elias, the head apothecary, had grown to associate with the slow decay of his own soul. He was forty years old, though the plague had carved the years out of his face, leaving him looking like a man who had seen the end of the world and found it tedious. For three...
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