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Unformatted text preview: before. Rowan lay in the bed; her breasts rose and fell beneath the pink satin of the new gown they'd put on her. Her hands curled inward. Her mouth was open. He could hear her breathing. She was alive. Unchanged. He fell on his knees next to the bed; he laid his head down on it, and he cried. He took her cold hand and squeezed it, and felt its pliancy, and what tiny bit of human warmth was actually there. She was alive. "Oh, Rowan, my darling, my darling," he said. "I thought. . ." and then he sobbed like a child. He just let the sobs come out slowly. He knew Aaron was near him. And he knew the other man was there too. And then slowly he looked up and he saw the figure standing at the foot of the bed. The priest. The thought sprang from him instantly when he saw the old-fashioned cassock of black wool, and the white Roman collar, but it was no priest. "Hello, Michael." Soft voice. Tall as they had said he was. Hair long and black and over his shoulders, beard and mustache beautifully groomed and gleaming, a sort of horrid Christ or Rasputin, with his blanched and tearstained face. "I too have been weep...
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- Spring '10