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. "Why did I want it under my pillow?" he asked. She ran down alleyways and between buildings, faster than an Olympian, until she could hear his voice no more. "He has fallen by the hand of Blueskin, who brought me these packets. Of course there were goats. The three young men exchanged expressive glances.
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