The weight of Gideon’s arms on Harrow’s forearms was getting more ephemeral, harder to perceive; the brush of Gideon’s cheek was suddenly no more substantial than the remembrance of an old fever. Her voice was in her ear, but it was very far away. Harrow placed the tip of her sword to the right of Cytherea’s breastbone. The world was slow and chilly. “One flesh, one end,” said Gideon, and it was a murmur now, on the very edge of hearing. Harrow said, “Don’t leave me.” “The land that shall receive thee dying, in the same will I die: and there will I be buried. The Lord do so and so to me, and
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