“The story,” I murmured. “The one you’ve tried to tell me. The one with the tragic beginning, and the desolate, interminable middle.” He knew. He was the strangest, the wisest creature, in all of Traum. So much like a child. Because he was. The gargoyle folded his hands in front of him, watching the moths. “Would you like to hear it?” “Yes.” He nodded. “I cannot tell it all myself. I do not remember it all. But I will tell you the story the way she told it to me—in her own words.” He steadied himself. Made his voice even, smooth. Like the abbess’s. It began with a whisper. “You know this
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