The Distant Nightmare
The mortar was heavy, a block of grey stone worn smooth by twenty years of Elara’s knuckles, and it sat in her palm with the dull, cold weight of a fact she had refused to admit for a decade. She ground the dried comfrey and valerian into a fine, greenish paste, the rhythmic crushing motion a familiar anchor in the damp, stone-walled kitchen of Harrowgate Manor. The air smelled of wet wool and...
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