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Carabosse

“You, being a spirit, understand little,” murmurs Carabosse. “Little is your expertise, your calling, even your living space. Have you considered how much more effective you could have been at an subvisible scale? Not that I’m imprecise; I’ll have to tell you sometime how much I accomplished with the tip of a spinning needle…”

The raven on Carabosse’s shoulder can’t resist leaning down to peck at the shiny black lamp. It buzzes back, and shudders angrily.

“Hush now,” says Carabosse, turning it over in her long white hands. “If we’re going to work together, you really must learn a little patience.”

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