A hush descended across the audience as instruments tuned, creating small ladders of fifths that collapsed abruptly, snatches of solos that disappeared and reappeared like gags in a house of mirrors. Give me the chisel, Blueskin. “I don’t want you to do it, to go on talking to me. ’ A question leapt into Everett’s head and he recalled the letter to the Abbess. These were less like streets than labyrinths, hewn through an eternal twilight. Cast off this weakness. ‘And you mean this? Truly?’ ‘Entirely.
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