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Q picked up a tile. It was silky smooth, and smelled spicy. This one was carved one long night in Bangladesh, where the sound of insects was louder in Bond’s mic than Bond himself. The middle tile smelled of rain and its back was still rough; Bond had been polishing it at home and had become, well, distracted. The last tile was ebony black. He breathed deeply, remembering the remains of his piano which Bond had salvaged from the fire.
Bond looked nervous as Q placed his two tiles down, framing the middle one vertically. Q looked up and smiled.