Books, in Evar’s experience, were always trying to show you something. They might shout it into your face, the author’s spittle practically flying from the page, or they might make you work to tease it from a story that seemingly ran in the opposite direction. But whatever their approach, books would, if given the opportunity, lead you to some window in a high tower, or crack open a door you had passed a thousand times and never truly seen, or venture up a mountainside to a rocky shoulder from where an unsuspected vista opened out before you. They would show the reader something, and there, on
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