The Pale Mist
The mercury sat in the glass vial, a pool of liquid silver that weighed exactly four ounces on the brass scale, and I measured the time in the slow, grinding rotation of the pestle against the mortar. It was the winter of 1893, and the air in Oakhaven had turned to a thick, gray paste that clung to the windowpanes of my apothecary shop, tasting of rust and old blood. I wanted to cure the...
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