The Wistful Ashes
The mortar ground against the pestle with a rhythmic, grinding shriek that seemed to echo from the very stones of the apothecary, a sound that Silas Vane had once found comforting but now perceived as a threat. He was forty years old, though the fever that had settled into his marrow made him feel ancient, his hands trembling as he measured out the last of the dried foxglove, his eyes fixed on...
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