“Only the West Wind,” Phyri put in, condescending to join the conversation only to quote a line or two of Shelley’s poem to that effect. “Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere; / Destroyer and preserver; hear, oh hear.”

“But Lycoris is right, last night was still.” Porphyria offered nothing else, regardless of her own guilt or innocence. Evidently, someone else would trip themselves up first.

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