Clara paid in cash, the weight of the glass comforting in her bag. As she walked back out into the humid evening, she dabbed a drop on her wrist. The sting wasn't there—only a cool, grounding sensation that made her feel, for the first time since the funeral, like she was finally home.
"Double-distilled from the bark and twigs," the man whispered. "Steam only. It doesn't last as long as the store-bought poison, so keep it cool. But it’ll heal what’s actually broken."
The clerk blinked. "Try the apothecary in the District. If it’s not in a cardboard box, they don't sell it."