Sebastian was gone and another doctor came to bleed her, to rid her of the black humors that were causing the plague. At first she thought he was endeavouring to rid himself of the fleas, but after a time she came to understand that the muck had healing qualities and soothed the burning scratches made by his claws. “They would spoil every chance. ” She could practically hear the self-deprecating thoughts racing across his mind, the failed hours of rehearsed lines. I made a wrong choice, it seems—but my voice remains.
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