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across the floor. She was wearing grimy boots with mismatched socks. That seemed very sad. I mean, it was sad that she was dead anyway—probably, unless she’d been a horrible person—but dying with mismatched socks seemed especially sad somehow.
on smoothly, it gives me a headache. Icing is not nearly as friendly as dough.) Since I was—apparently—a dangerous criminal, one of the constables rode in the coach with us, possibly to protect Inquisitor Oberon. I guess he might have thought he needed protection from a fourteen-year-old girl because I was a magicker. People get uneasy about that sort of thing. You can’t testify in court if you’re a magicker unless you’re holding a piece of iron, because iron is supposed to counteract magic, even though it doesn’t do anything of the sort. I use an iron skillet all the time. It’s just an old
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“I’m a wanted criminal!”
When you’re different, even just a little different, even in a way that people can’t see, you like to know that people in power won’t judge you for it.
I would have him executed