The Wistful Voyage
The brass stethoscope was cold against my left palm, a disk of metal so smooth it seemed to slide rather than rest, and I held it there for a long moment before the smell of the room hit me. It was a scent of boiled linseed oil, old paper, and the sharp, metallic tang of fever. I adjusted the earpieces, the leather creaking softly, and stepped into the chamber of the Duke of Varenne. The palace...
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