I turn back to her, startled, and notice it’s her fingers that are brushing against mine. Except not exactly her fingers. Stone replicas of them. Not ash, I realize as I gaze at her. As our fingers meet and join. Stone. Grace is stone. And not stone as in a statue, either. This Grace, who is somehow—incomprehensibly—made of stone, is also somehow—incomprehensibly—alive.
Her GarGOYLE
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