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... could crack stone a thundering, messy cocktail of anger, longing, humiliation, and the peculiar frustration that only a once-in-a-century idiot you happen to love can provide. The corridor was silent except for the distant sounds of repair: hammers on half-fallen walls, the complaints of a carpenter somewhere down the hall, and, just beneath it all, the shuddery echo of her own breath.
She paused by her door, the wood still painted with the faint wards her mother had inscribed when she w ...
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