The Distant Garden
Thorne! Keep your voice down, you fool, or the rats will hear you before the Magistrate does. Silas’s whisper was a jagged thing, cutting through the humid air of the back room where the air smelled of dried yarrow and old copper. I ignored him, my hands trembling as I arranged the samples on the velvet cloth, the Sanguis Root pulsing against the fabric like a second, slower heart. It was a...
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