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Proserpina

“I wish you’d come out to the matches,” says Radiane, under the high-pitched chatter and scuffle of practice.

Proserpina contains a blush. “I don’t feel like it lately.”

“The real boxers don’t punch like us. Did you know that? They jab or swing, from the forearm or shoulder, but you taught us to uncurl from the upper arm out–”

“I taught you what works. We don’t have muscles like they do.”

Radiane smirks. “Maybe you don’t.” She feints high; Proserpina’s already up, anticipating, and soon everyone stops to watch the old partners spar.

Miss Havisham watches too, then slips away.

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