"Lean on me," said Jack. Lucy grabbed the hand cannon, stuffing it with powder, nearly missing a swing of the sword meant for her neck. "Don't scourge me," she cried, trying to hide herself in the farthest corner of the cell. She rehearsed the story of her forlorn long lost mother in her head, what she would say to the theorymongers. She is called Madame Ibstock, you understand.
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