The Wistful Show
The parchment was thin, translucent where the ink had bled through, and it smelled of the damp cellar where I had slept for three years. It was a list of ingredients, written in the cramped, angular script of Master Aldous Thorne, and at the bottom, in a hand that trembled slightly with age, was my own name, followed by the word *Suspended*. I had been locked in the Guild’s basement laboratory...
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