The Wistful Mirror

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2026-08-23 03:53:33 -

The warrant was pinned to my door with a rusted nail, the paper yellowed and stiff against the pine. It accused my father, Thomas Thorne, of poisoning Mayor Whitmore’s wife with arsenic laced in her evening tonic. I was forty-two, an apothecary licensed in three counties, and I held the final dose of laudanum in my hand, meant to ease my father’s failing breath. The town called him a witch...

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