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... a mortician, always a mortician. I thought I could teach Lucian a few things and continue living a quiet life...fortunately, it isn't addressed to me, but still.

Folded in bark paper, sealed in red wax shaped like a spool of thread. It hadn't arrived by messenger, nor appeared on the garden's delivery circle. And as it wasn't addressed to her—by name or by scent—she let it go.

Intercepting this is just rude.

It was there, nestled between a bushel of dried tallowfruit, lav ...

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