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Mme. Bariconder

Mme. Bariconder always gets a kick out of the first day of class. So does the rest of the room, mop-tops and pages fluttering as they stare at the unlucky white-faced exemplar.

“Stop looking so stunned, class, Mr. Cullikin here has just provided a useful demonstration of what happens when one takes the classics lightly,” she says, rapping the resin countertop with her wand. “Someone please look around for the rest of his fingers? Mr. Cruik will stitch those back on in minutes. The rest of you, carefully turn to page five in Lingua Explosiva Latina, and we’ll begin.”

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