Morning of the 31st December, at the Harvest Church south of the Bridge.
Emlyn White stood in a kitchen wearing his priest robes, occasionally tossing different herbs into a large iron pot and stirring them to a certain extent.
After all the pre-prepared ingredients were tossed in, he waited patiently for another ten minutes. Then, he scooped up the ink-black liquid with a metal ladle and poured it into a glass cup and glass bottle beside him.
48, 49, 50… Emlyn glanced at the empty pot and counted the medicine he had brewed.
After confirming the quantity, he picked up a large tray and brought the bottles of dark green liquid to the hall.
In the hall, more than half of the pews had been removed, and the floor was covered with tattered blankets. Lying within them were victims of the plague who were either in deep sleep or groaning in pain.
