The Distant Garden
The ledger had three hundred and twelve entries, each one a small, heavy weight in the mind, a tally of silver spent on mercury and sulfur, on glass vials and lead plates, and I counted them again in the blue twilight of my study, the quill scratching a rhythm that felt less like writing and more like the dragging of a heavy chain across stone. I am Elias Thorne, and I have spent forty-five...
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