Maddie Buell

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“Hawkes,” Pierce greeted evenly. Hawkes, having surmounted the stairs, wordlessly offered me my hat while tucking his books beneath his arm and lifting his now free hand to shake Pierce’s. I noticed a five-pound note pass between them, from Hawkes to Pierce. A wager to which I was not privy. They both kept a straight face, thinking the exchange unnoticed.
The Unselected Journals of Emma M. Lion: Vol. 8
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