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... s she stormed through the church, her skirts snapping at her heels like angry banners caught in a storm.

Candles flickered weakly along the walls, their pale glow failing to touch the blackness roiling in her chest. It was a darkness older than grief--raw, hungry, and relentless.

Marcella didn’t slow.

Not when the servants bowed their heads in deference.

Not when the guards exchanged uneasy glances at her hurried steps.

Her fingers itched with a fury so fi ...

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