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... s, who were exhibiting the rigid stillness of people trying very hard to be invisible.
"Spiced wine," the woman said. "Old Maret’s recipe. She’s been making it since before I started here."
"Thirty-two years," said one of the other women, apparently unable to help herself.
"Does it have a name?" Elara asked.
"We call it ’end of day,’" the grey-haired one said. "Because that’s when you have it. When everything’s done and there’s nothing left to do but sit."
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