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Louis shelves his book, moving slow as treacle. “You like idioms, don’t you, my love... How familiar are you with the notion of washing one’s mouth out with soap?”
A shiver passes down Armand’s spine, settling in his stomach like a sudden weight, hot and cold at once. “Plenty familiar with the phrase’s general usage, but I can’t say it’s something I’ve experienced firsthand.”
“I see,” Louis says delicately, skating his gaze over Armand’s lips.
Yes. Armand sees too.
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Claudia holds a hand up between her face and the mirror to block her features from her own reflection.
“Waving?” Madeleine speculates from behind her. “Greeting yourself?”
“Covering,” Claudia clarifies. “Obscuring myself.”
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The monitor beeps steadily. Wilford breathes shallowly. His lips look grey; his closed eyes are sunken to pits. If he’s even slightly conscious, even remotely aware of his body, he must be terribly uncomfortable. That thought stirs impulse in Alex, but she can’t decide whether her impulse is to ease his pain or increase it.
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It’s a platonic renaissance of sorts. They’ve become like teenagers compelled to appraise each other virtually of their every move, fingers furious on glittery keypads, only this is far better than texting, Louis reckons. Less hassle, less babble, more to the point. Just feelings, worn beneath the sleeve like a second heartbeat, tucked safe between the tendons of the wrist.
Louis adjusts his shirt cuff.
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When Oswald wakes up battered and bruised, the last thing he remembers is agreeing to a six-hour truce with Ed after escaping the Court Of Owls. He can only assume that Ed has broken their truce and decided to play dirty.
The truth is much stranger. Oswald is apparently over a decade in the future, and Ed is fussing demurely at his bedside, and everybody around him is insisting that he and Ed are not only allies again, but married.
He decides that this is either a glitch in the matrix or an astoundingly cruel trick on Ed’s part. He does not, for a single second, entertain that it might be real.
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