The pendulum clock in Brother Thaddeus’s old study chimed, a slow, resonant bong that seemed to echo the passage of centuries more than the mere hour. Finn, who still looked no older than a man approaching thirty, barely registered it. He was too engrossed in the swirling emerald liquid within the alembic, the glass gleaming faintly in the dim, candlelit room. A wisp of fragrant steam, laced with the essence of mountain thyme and moonpetal, curled upwards, tickling his nose.