She nudged the box toward me. I picked up the vial. The seal was cracked, and even that ghost of a whiff sent a cold spark through my sinuses. It was absinthe, sure—the grand wormwood, the green fairy. But this wasn’t the licorice-sweet anise of Pernod. This was something older. The base was Artemisia absinthium grown in a Bohemian graveyard, they said. Distilled in a copper still that had once made tinctures for a mad king. And the color? The violet came from a maceration of nightshade berries and a pinch of pure, pharmaceutical-grade melancholy.
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