The Distant Clue
The scent of crushed rosemary and sulfur clung to the air in the bedchamber, a sharp, medicinal tang that cut through the heavy wool of the nightclothes. You are Thomas Bradshaw, and for the past three months, you have not slept more than two hours at a stretch, your eyes perpetually bloodshot from the strain of reading by candlelight, your hands stained a permanent yellow from the tinctures...
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