Salvage

The lenses continued to strike as I leapt over Phidias. I wrenched Lundqvist's stylus from the socket, heedless of the damage I did to both. "Professora Lundqvist!" I shouted, peering at her sensor ring and the brain beyond. But the walls continued to keen, and Lundqvist's phonograph remained silent.

If Phidias had been through three weeks of this on his own, no wonder he was such a wreck.
Gone Sleeping

Gris-Gris's fur moved where I blew on it, but nothing happened, and I felt desperate sad but also I felt so happy to know I wasn't a witch. It wasn't working and he wasn't coming back alive, so I wasn't a witch. But when I thought that to myself, something in Gris-Gris seemed to tremble, and I touched his chest with my finger and felt it move.

Well, what was I supposed to do? I wished harder. I couldn't just stop.
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The Witch’s Second
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One can scarcely thank a man for promising to thrash one's best friend in a duel.