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“She thought of her hand in his, of gripping his worn fingers with her small ones. She thought of an old dead woman in a rocking chair, because her daughter couldn't bear to leave. She thought of the Otherking, leaving his home because he could not stay. And she thought of a mother, holding her dead child and the broken cauldron of rebrith. Her hand tightened araound the broken spoon and she let the jagged waves of grief wash over her.” — Emily Lloyd-Jones
She thought of her hand in his, of gripping his worn fingers with her small ones.
She thought of an old dead woman in a rocking chair, because her daughter couldn't bear to leave.
She thought of the Otherking, leaving his home because he could not stay.
And she thought of a mother, holding her dead child and the broken cauldron of rebrith.
Her hand tightened araound the broken spoon and she let the jagged waves of grief wash over her.