The Faded Alibi
Elias, you are bleeding on the floor again. The voice of Silas, his assistant and former confessor, drifted up from the cellar stairs, thin and brittle as the dried herbs hanging in the rafters. Elias did not look up; he was too busy wiping the black fluid from his thumb with a rag that had already turned the color of rust. It was the winter of 1348, and the air in the apothecary was so cold it...
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