She couldn't take him seriously, not even when he held a knife to her throat. There was something infinitely comical about the shadow he cast or the way his face stretched like rubber.

Her skin prickled and she held her breath, focusing on somber images: veiled widows, Roman candles, clocks at midnight. Her blood ran a hot circuit from her chest to her fingertips, the momentum bubbling into her throat. She coughed, grinding the air between her teeth.

She was supposed to swoon when she received the chalice, but when the glass met her lips, she couldn't contain it anymore.

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