“There are so few of us, Miss Spindle. You are more special than you know. And it pains me to think I might have hurt you. I’m—sorry.” He paused. “Trees, I’m sorry.” I listened to the wind through the wood, the lull blending with Ravyn Yew’s voice. He seemed different dressed as a highwayman—changed. Gone was the austere, controlled persona he displayed as Captain of the Destriers. Here, in the wood, he was just a man in a black cloak seeking repentance. I extended my hand. “You’re forgiven. On one condition.” The invisible string tugged the corner of his mouth. “What’s that?” When our hands
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