Macee Grisenti

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The swan’s tentative movements gained elegance as Morty found more purchase, a deeper confidence in his own casting. Then, the bird stretched that sinuous neck toward us, lifting its wings in a gentle flutter. Extending its head as far as it could reach, to peck the icy, avian equivalent of a kiss onto my cheek.
Back in a Spell (The Witches of Thistle Grove, #3)
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