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It was, they said, carved up and carried back to the city in pieces, on greased sleds and low-riding ships, from the westward lands where the sun dies in winter. There was no stone with its strange green veins anywhere in Silhouine’s country; a dozen people could walk over it standing abreast.

She and Dulap make their way out of the nervous crowd around the remains.

“Were they making a point?” Silhouine asks.

“I don’t know,” says Dulap. “Do you feel pointed?”

“It was big and ugly. I never really liked it.”

Her bed is cold, and her kitten shivers.