The Faded Root
The morning Elias Thorne packed his leather satchel for the Vane estate, the floorboards of his Oakhaven apothecary groaned with a wet, organic resistance that had no business existing in a house of brick and timber. He was forty years old, a man whose hands had not trembled since he was a boy, and his ambition was as steady and cold as the mercury in his thermometers; he needed the permanent...
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