The Pale Garden
The date is the fourteenth of October, 1348, and I write this by the guttering light of a tallow candle that has burned down to a sliver, its smoke choking the air of my cellar where the damp stone bites into my back. I am Elias, a herbalist of no great renown, and I am writing to you, brother, because I am afraid to speak aloud to the living, and because the hands I have spent the last three...
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