Her mind invoked her husband, who she imagined lying dead in a ditch somewhere, tortured and killed by brigands or perhaps eaten by creatures like herself, a fate he actually deserved. The wings stopped. Her aunt arrived about halfpast ten, in black and with an unusually thick spotted veil. She positioned it over her arm, placing the firing end in Rhea’s mouth. ‘There’s no controlling you, is there?’ He held up his hands.
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