Lucy loved orchestras, the bittersweet tinge of rosin dust that hung in the air, the way that the sun shone through filthy windows illuminating the marimbas with a storybook light. Say something. ” She gasped. A cup of lies. She was beauty, the key of magic, the teacher of spells, the predictor of wars, and the gate of the future. ‘So yours is the rattling tongue, is it, young madam?’ ‘I should say so.
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