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“No. Just--Can we not?” They were both coated with mud. With blood. The boy’s, their own, the garden’s and Anna was so tired. She couldn’t imagine Mabel being any less worn. “The King is dead. We’re back. Can we just-- one night. One night and then tomorrow we can deal with the boy and whoever sent him and everything else just..”
“You just want to have a conversation,” and there was an edge, a sarcasm in Mabel’s voice as if she couldn’t believe that they were doing this again. “Not us-as-archetypes, not you skeletal and me--”
“I want to make you dinner. You burning. And me skeletal,” Anna said. “I’m not naive, Mabel.”
Or: In which peace is hardwon and promises are kept.