“No, not a bloodmaid. A Wretch’s blood is not fit for drinking. It’s barely fit for bathing.” “But you have needle marks on your arms.” The Wretch gazed down at her ragged nails, chewed on one of them. “Not a bloodmaid . . . now. But that does not mean I was never a bloodmaid.” And then it hit her. The truth of the creature, the woman, crouched before her. “Oh my God. Cecelia—”
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