The Distant Clue
The tincture requires three drops. No more. The moonlight falls across the stone floor in a pale, cold rectangle, and you count the seconds between the guard’s footsteps. One, two, three. You do not breathe. You are not a hero. You are a man with dirt under his fingernails and a vial of amber liquid in his pocket. The orchid is in your hand. Its petals are white, thin as parchment, and they...
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