PREVIEW
... e, hosting diplomats, and surviving a siege, we’d earned the right to not start the day with theft.
But no.
Because this morning began with Cinders standing in the middle of our provisional cook station, holding a ladle like it had insulted her family, and asking, in the calmest murder-voice I’ve ever heard:
"Where’s my spoon?"
And I don’t mean "a" spoon. I mean the spoon. The slightly warped, reinforced iron-band one with a handle short enough to burn your finger ...
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