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Chapter 22Book 7: : A Dance of Knives
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... gold stretched toward a vaulted ceiling that seemed to capture and amplify every whispered word. She adjusted her robes for the third time, the gossamer fabric still feeling foreign against her skin despite the months she'd spent among the Children of the Tree.
"Stop fidgeting," Lyriel murmured beside her, the elf's voice carrying that particular blend of fondness and exasperation Margret had grown accustomed to. "You'll wrinkle the silk."
She forced her hands to stillness, thoug ...
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