The Distant Ghost
Manette Zeringue is fifty-two, and her hands shake so badly that the ink bleeds into the grain of the ledger paper, turning the precise dosage figures for the royal antidote into a smear of black water. She wants to prove her alchemical mastery to the King, to show that the mind she has spent thirty years sharpening is still sharp enough to cut through the fog of her failing body, but the first...
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