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Shaken, I reach for her arm as though to pull her back, and feel rough skin under the robes: old scars, burns, long healed. For some reason I am reminded of another traveller, long ago, a little girl fleeing a burning house, running out into our pilgrim-train. She would have become a priestess when she grew up, I think. It is not impossible. Tekel, the woman had said before she died, and I wonder what she shares with my son.

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Read “Unrest” by Grace Seybold, in Issue #12

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Grace Seybold has lived in Montreal for the past fifteen years, where she spends most of her time dodging oncoming traffic. She works as a copy editor for McGill-Queen's University Press. Her fiction has been published in ChiZine, AEStar*Line, Machine of Death 2, and multiple times previously in Beneath Ceaseless Skies, among other places. Her name is pronounced "SIGH-bold".

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