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Meurig scrambled to his feet, confused. “Your pardon, that I missed prayers,” he said to Father Ambrose. “My heart is too heavy for my words to rise.” He had pierced the skin of worlds, however briefly. Now Rhiannon was a sword again, and Caedmon would die.
Green life gave him more comfort than the image of a man nailed to a cross.
The bite of winter spins in and Father whirls on all fours to face the doorway. Beyond, the night is almost here. He barks, then shakes his pelt into place and trots out into the darkness. His tracks stand stark in the snow and the moonlight.
I lock both Father and the night away.
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My hands were reading the elaborate carvings on the fireplace when I heard two halting footsteps behind me.