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... trokes as she wrote.
She had been doing this more and more lately. Writing. Recording. Documenting thoughts she didn’t dare speak aloud.
Not about the novel. Not about the way the plot was shifting beyond her control.
But about the people in it.
Beatrice paused, her quill hovering over the page. The candlelight flickered beside her, casting long shadows across the desk.
It was strange. She had lived in this world long enough now that she no longer hesitate ...
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