The Wistful Witness
Elara. The summons came not as a letter but as a shout, the voice of the Duke’s steward cracking through the heavy oak door of the apothecary’s shop, a sound that vibrated in the floorboards and rattled the glass jars of dried lavender on the shelves. Elara did not look up from the mortar in her hands, where she was grinding auburn bark into a fine, dusty powder, but her shoulders tightened,...
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