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“She shall come,” he recited, “shrouded in black, but not of mourning…” With a continued look of astonishment, he reached out and pointed to her black skirts before looking at her face. “With eyes of the honey moon.”
“And Autumn in her locks,” he continued, watching Mabon use his teeth to withdraw a tiny ruby leaf from where it was unknowingly tangled in her hair. “She will come, escorted by a creature of the night.” They both looked at Mabon upon her shoulder. “And a raven shall descend upon her.”
“She will come,” he whispered. “Our Daughter of Autumn. Agatha of Helsvar.”
One must take pains to remember that life deals in greys. What is white to one might very well be black to another. It matters not who is right or wrong, but how we mutually treat one another in the midst of the grey.
“Defiance,” Agatha said fiercely without thinking. A fire lit behind Tindle’s eyes. “Of?” he urged. “Oppression. Suppression. Inequality.” Her hands formed fists at her sides. “Of being shoved into a shell of yourself at the hands of what someone else tells you is right.”
“You say that, and yet it is still Her Highness Princess Agatha that you cannot tear your eyes away from.”

