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Read by T.D. Edge
A church grim like Magrat could taste death, scent it on the air, feel it in the marrow of her bones. Every mortal carried a little bit; death was always a possibility, from accident or disease. But sometimes the possibility grew stronger, closer, when a man stood at a fork in the road, then chose the path that led toward peril.
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Read “And Blow Them at the Moon” by Marie Brennan, in Issue #50
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