“You needn’t be worried,” she said quietly. Her two sticks were bare and brown, her snugged canvas drab, her brasses dull, her anchor mottled with rust. Her mother brewed potions to scent her hair, sweet balms of anise for her lips and hands, told her wonderful secrets, some decidedly un-Christian. "To—to—no matter what," returned the widow distractedly. She did not care that vampire children are abominations. The stranger started at the touch, and spoke.
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