The Distant Temple
The bill for the Grey Powder lay on the counter, its ink smudged where Silas’s thumb had pressed the wax seal. Elias Thorne read it twice, the numbers blurring in his eyes, before he signed. The amount was absurd, a sum that would eat into the winter stock of tinctures, but the alternative was watching Martha waste away in the upstairs bedroom. He was forty-two, an apothecary in the industrial...
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