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... music, soft, melodic—one I could recognize even with my eyes closed.

Edith.

"Miss Edith," I acknowledge without turning, my gaze fixed elsewhere. My arms are folded, my back pressed against the cold marble pillar of the hall.

Across the courtyard, Poppy laughs. Laughs—with him.

That bastard hands her a flower. She plucks a petal with delicate fingers, pops it into her mouth, then giggles when he copies her. They look ridiculous. Sweet. Intimate. My chest tightens ...

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