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The Patron Saint
Pitmaster James awoke hanging from his feet in a tiny room. The smell made James retch. Everything was shrouded in gloom. A puddle of something wet reflected the sickly flame of a lone candle. James’ heartbeat punctuated the dull ache in his head with spikes of agony.
L’Ultima Prima Donna
“How old are you?” she asked.
“Old enough,” the apothecary replied as he busied himself snatching up small bottles, mixing their contents into his mortar, grinding with his pestle.