The Distant Clue
The vial is empty. You check the stopper. It is tight. You check the label. It is smudged. You are Elias Thorne, and you are shaking. The cellar smells of damp earth and dried foxglove, a scent that has settled into the pores of your skin over twenty years. Your hands are stained green at the knuckles, the permanent mark of the trade. You have the nightshade tincture. It is the only thing that...
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