She sat on the edge of the bed overwhelmed, the roses cradled in her arms. They turned off at Glen Grove, a sleepy town of less than two hundred. Her fingers passed over a cunningly wrought surface of wood, with just the correct amount of protrusion, the precise colours of dyed leather, and cleverly gilded surfaces and neatly painted lettering. Tristan dying and Isolde coming to crown his death. But I don’t wish to hear that abomination on her lips again. “Are you sure you want to do this?” Lucy asked.
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