Chapter Twenty
Almost from the moment he first mounts his silvery steed, Bryon is out of the race without any hope of winning.
True, Rumbbaa, Paige, and I are all soaring high above, too far from the ground to see the unicorn and the dragon, but it doesn't take the new incarnation of Sherlock Holmes to interpret Bryon's desperate screeches to control his horse, and the following sonic boom veering Rumbbaa's otherwise steady flight.
Although I'd initially been startled, both by my uncle's unwillingness to enter such a speed and his very real possibility of beating all of us to Sercem Domu, all my fears are quickly chased off. From the high vantage point of Rumbbaa's back with the sky's arms wrapped around me and the clouds to pillow my fall, I'd been able to delightfully witness the zigzag patterns that Tabitha carves into the earth, darting around like a bullet ricocheting off the inside of a can.
Admittedly, it's probably Hugo that's going faster than all of us, with Raffe at a close second. Down far below, Scruffy's legs pound somewhere hidden in the forest – I'd glimpsed him once, slicing through a meadow like a scalding blade through melted butter. The canopies of the conifers protect him from much spying, but one can only assume he still hurls himself ahead at his master's commands.
Raffe, however, exposed to the gleaming sun, is like a dark hawk, gliding along with both swiftness and grace. The only shadow against the fresh morning blue sky, he sweeps the clouds with his wings, buoying himself with the winds and cupping the day's breath beneath him. Although he might not be able to maintain the charging-bull speed of Scruffy or the mad rampage of Tabitha's stampede, perhaps its slow and steady that wins the race.
After all, "slow and steady" is the last bit of hope that I dare cling onto.
Rumbbaa's ascension had been glorious – I'd bundled his coarse fur against my face, flattened Paige beneath me in an attempt to pin both of us onto the broad wolf's back. Bryon had warned me that, to rise the way he must, Rumbbaa would have to go vertical for a considerable amount of time, and wouldn't be able to dive to catch me like he normally would should I release him. This had worried Raffe to a considerable degree; he flat out refused Bryon's offers to watch me, instead taking off alongside Rumbbaa, twirling around the wolf like a lithe butterfly until Rumbbaa was safely caught in a current, horizontal once more.
However, after the dizzying forces Rumbbaa summoned to lift us higher into the air than I'd ever gone before with Raffe, the wolf had mellowed out, beating his wings when only necessary, content with his slow and steady speed. I'd been originally fascinated by the cold, wet atmosphere, pulling myself up until I was sitting at the wolf's shoulders like a jockey on a stallion, watching open-mouthed as Raffe cut through the gales like the winged predator I know he is.
As it is, no matter how many times I urged him forward, kicked at his sides, pulled his hair, or tried to bat at the wings flapping directly behind me, Rumbbaa would ignore me and continue his slow and steady flight. The awkwardness of having my legs splayed to such a degree so I can at least somewhat grip his thick girth with my thighs is positively dreadful. No longer does the fear of falling plague me, either; Rumbbaa's flight is so serene, I'd have to be doing something foolish to manage and slip off in any way. It's only boredom that grips me now, boredom and a sense of dejection.
I suppose I'll beat Bryon and his speed-of-sound unicorn. That's something.
My eyes trail the unicorn's destructive path as she bounces off the mountains and ridges like a deranged ping-pong ball. Maybe it isn't such an accomplishment.
I rub at Paige's shoulder, releasing my precious viselike grip on Rumbbaa's mane. "Hey, baby," I whisper, trying to heat her chilled flesh with friction, "you feel pretty cold. Are you cold? Do I need Rumbbaa to get you some sort of blanket from someone?"
Although she doesn't respond with words of any type, Paige has her little ways of communicating with me, little things that Bryon has been helping me decrypt and interpret – her eyes shine, her lips perk, and her eyebrows are raised with glee. It's as if it doesn't matter to her that we're in last place, that we're behind Raffe and Hugo and even Ogden, that little bastardly speck on the horizon. She's flying, something she's never truly done before.
It makes sense, the more I think about it. Because of her disability, Paige's never been on any roller coaster other than Elmo's Wide Rides or maybe Snoopy's Fun Land or whatnot, and with those, you just can't really get any sort of thrill factor. With our financial situation, she's never truly been on an airplane, either – not since she was a little, little girl. Of course it would be exhilarating to her to be cavorting amongst the clouds, no matter what place we're in. That brings a spark of life to the austere boredom, bringing a smile to my lips.
"Yeah," I agree, shifting my grip on Rumbbaa's fur so I'm clutching her to my chest for protection against the plummet, "it's wild up here, isn't it? You want me to take your hair out of the ponytail, so you can feel the wind through it?"
The corners of her eyes crinkle, and, very, very slowly, she nods.
"Alright, give me a second." My smile becomes a grimace as Paige turns her back. Removing the pony tail is a two-hand business, and, as it happens, I'm not all too fond of letting go of the wolf as we soar hundreds of feet above the ground, despite Hugo's assurances that Rumbbaa would probably be able to catch me.
Scowling at her hair, I balance carefully, legs squeezing the life out of Rumbbaa as I tussle with the hairband, dragging it as best I can from her greasy mane. Her brown locks fall around her face, quivering delicately in the wind like feathers drifting in a storm. Even as I bury my hands back into Rumbbaa's fur, I can feel the beginning of a smile pull at my lips – it's as if I can tell what she's thinking, as if I can sense her thrilled triumph at being on top of the world.
"Hey, Rumbbaa," I call to the wolf, digging my heels into his shoulders and causing his flight to weave slightly. "Do you mind picking up the pace a bit? I understand we're going to be last, but could we not, like, lose so badly?"
At this, he snorts indignantly, the most response I've received from him since we'd first taken off.
"Yeah, we're losing really badly. At least try to get a little wind pumping, okay? It's cooler that way."
Rumbbaa pauses, as if considering this, then snarls. He beats his wings with new fervor, slamming them against the wind's currents. True, I'm not expecting him to join the Indy 500 anytime soon, but the speed he reaches under such a short notice returns a prick of respect to me; he may not catch up with Hugo and he definitely won't be on Tabitha's level, but there's a solid chance that he'll be able to reach Raffe.
The tremble in reverberating deep in Paige's chest is something Bryon had titled a chuckle, and this particular chuckle seems to be seasoned with delight. An answering growl sounds from Rumbbaa, perhaps a lupine laugh of his own. He beats his wings harder against the wind, beginning a strange up and down motion I've never seen an angel do before. He moves almost like some sort of porpoise with each flap of his wings, bobbing to keep the movement.
"Wow," I admire teasingly. "You do have some guts. But can you catch up to Raffe?"
Rumbbaa growls a guttural acceptance to my challenge, the beats of his wings gaining not only speed but malicious, brawny power. The cool wind above us shoves his muzzle down, but the warm air pocketed beneath his feathers lifts us up. I lean down, cuddling Paige against his mane to conserve the little heat we have between us.
The observations that had lead me to first enter Hugo and Bryon's little race soon make themselves apparent with each flap of his speckled brown wings – like a heavyweight sumo wrestler on the prowl, Rumbbaa rockets towards Raffe with neither stamina nor determination lessening. For each of Rumbbaa's sweeping flaps, Raffe must take three.
Her body pressed tightly against mine, Paige chuckles again, something I could've only felt had we been lying together the way we are – perhaps that is why Bryon prefers to have Paige perched on his shoulders or sleeping on his chest, to monitor her emotions and reactions.
Initially, Raffe is blind to our aerial approach, his predatory gaze trained on the ground below – does the hawk look up, check if it has a shadow? Does the noble eagle? Raffe doesn't, either, though perhaps it is because he is primitively unaware of the danger Rumbbaa could pose should this be a wild situation. When he does notice, he seems to react more with amusement than alarm, even slowing his speed to allow Rumbbaa to approach.
"Look who finally showed up," Raffe jeers, swooping below us, tilting his head up as best he can. "About time you got here. Slow poke wolf for a slow poke monkey."
At this, Rumbbaa flaps slightly harder, his nose extended beyond the farthest reach of Raffe's wings.
"Haven't you ever paid attention to any philosophies?" I discipline, using my own bitter words against him. "'Slow and steady wins the race.'"
Raffe laughs as if I'd made a funny joke. "Bit of emphasis on 'slow and steady', isn't there? This tank isn't going anywhere. Tell you what – I'll stay right here, flapping alongside you, and let you believe for a few seconds that you have a chance to win, and then – I'll come up from behind and show you that slow and steady never works."
"You are a murderer of childhood fables." Despite my hard, callus tone, my lips are spread in a broad grin. "But you're on. Don't exert yourself too badly, alright? Leads to heart problems."
This time, his musical laugh has a deeper, more toothsome cadence to it – spiraling elegantly in the wind with an expert coil of his bat wings, Raffe ducks between the strokes of Rumbbaa to somehow level out above me. "By the time I'm finished, your heart will be so mangled, I might have to place you under constant supervision."
"You'll be catatonic if I get my way," I intone in response, but the awkwardness does remain lodged in my stomach – even if he had meant to threaten me about the race and the race alone, his words do ring remarkably familiar to topics I don't necessarily want to discuss before Paige.
Chuckling again with superior amusement, Raffe flaps once, gliding upwards with the breeze. The wind his leathery wings discard caresses over my face, sending my hair writhing even more wildly. After having risen a considerable distance, Raffe's wings fan out to glide gracefully on the currents – his shadow falls upon me, and, call me crazy if you will, but those shadowed wings almost seem like shields to bode off all harm to come, and there is a certain security in having the top dog's protection.
I bundle Paige closer to my chest at that thought, lost in my mental paradise, swimming in thoughts of warmth and of comfy beds. Clutching at Rumbbaa's neck as he gradually pours on the speed, gaining height in with each stroke of his feathers, I analyze the situation as Raffe sinks below us and we continue to ascend. Though I don't dare comment, I do have an inkling as to what his final plan may happen to be.
As we continue to gain speed with such a gradual increase that I don't notice it all of the time, things come and pass and go. Once, Raffe spots a group of angels circling a ridge in the distance – he'd said they were definitely angels, but not organized in standard military formations, like rogue angels. I'd spotted Scruffy once – loping over a hill, just a little ways beyond us, he'd slinked off into the woods before I could try to even yell at the wolf. We even passed Ogden together, Raffe and I – true, his beautiful silvery black wings are works of art, and the way they sparkle and gleam in the sun even brought grudging awe to Raffe of all people, they weren't built for speed or for racing – perhaps for battle or transportation, but not speed.
I squint at the horizon, focused on a few blurred shapes mottling the countryside, a dapple of beige and caramel in a sea of emerald green. Curiosity builds until I find myself calling out to Raffe. "Hey! What's that thing, up ahead?"
As I lean over Rumbbaa's side to deliver the message, my sweaty hands knot in his fur to secure myself. The air, at this point, is very thin, to the point where I'm concerned about Paige being so high in the sky; she seems to be taking it better than me, but it doesn't console me one hundred percent that even Raffe is flying well below us. I have to yell to grab his attention.
"I don't know for certain," Raffe calls back, soaring slightly higher in the sky, "but it could be our final destination. You know what that means."
The thrill of the challenge dances in my stomach. "You're on. Rumbbaa, do your thing."
Like before, the wolf doesn't differ his habits in the slightest, causing Raffe to laugh. But I only smile, knowing that his snailing and gradual increase in height will reap great rewards. And so, as Raffe grows increasingly competitive, with brazen flaps and exhilarated twirls, I grow calmer and more patient, holding true to the fairytale dictating Rumbbaa's every move – slow and steady wins the race.
And Sercem Domu creeps up on us, its beauty bizarre and foreign to me, especially – I had never seen anything like the stone buildings that the towers and gardens and houses and courtyards and Lord in heaven knows what else. So, to approach from the air, it seems as if I'm descending upon a regal castle bustling with colorful life.
As soon as we grow near enough, winged people are taking to the sky, possibly to greet us, or to get a better vantage point on those they might deem as intruders. Those I can see clearly steal my breath like thieves.
Unlike many of the angels that I've seen, they don't have dull browns and animalistic tawnies and bleak greys. It's almost as if a bunch of parrots from the Amazon had gotten lost and ended up in California – shocking canary yellows, neon greens, sky blue flecked with lilac, vivid sunset oranges, brilliant whites, and of course the classic ruby red splashed with every other color along the primaries.
The winged people try to draw attention to a particular area, something I can see far, far off even without Raffe's help – a narrow rectangular landing pad for all winged creatures, even ones as large as Rumbbaa. And, in a last effort before the plunge, Rumbbaa beats his wings with strength he still summons from somewhere deep within.
"Hold on tight," I whisper to Paige, so softly that there's no way Raffe could hear over the winds as, slowly, Rumbbaa's wings start to fold against his sides. I flatten the two of us as much as I can, gripping the wolf with all my might – legs, arms, hands. For a demented second, I consider even biting the hairs tickling my nose for better leverage.
In the seconds before Rumbbaa dives, I realize that Raffe had the same plan on his mind – and that he has already started to plummet.
But the realization comes too late, and, soon, the violent forces of gravity are whipping my hair up in a whirlwind, bringing tears to my eyes and chilling my bones. My arms feel like lead and my stomach is left behind to mill about in the cloudless sky. The sensation is similar to that of a roller coast, except the only thing latching me onto the car is my own strength – of course, I might be caught if I let go and free-fall, but then again, I might not.
Seconds before he hits the ground, Rumbbaa's wings slam out with tremendous force, jarring my body violently – had I not been prepared for such an action, he could've facilely snapped my neck simply by spreading his wings. As it happens, I nearly snap my tongue off. Blood floods my mouth, a tsunami of the coppery liquid, while I hastily rub at the corners of my lips to be rid of any drool that might've let loose before anyone can take notice of it.
Rumbbaa's wide, sweeping flaps carry us the last fifteen feet to the ground. He lands surprisingly lightly upon the dusty ground and with a mighty sigh, his shoulders relaxing and his wings hanging by his sides – not folded, nor lifted, but merely dangling, feathers dragged in the dirt as if he is so fatigued he cannot even consider their hygiene.
I breathe out shakily, patting his neck in appreciation as Paige and I peel ourselves from his back and shake the numbness from our limbs. "You've done good, boy. Real good."
A slow, sarcastic clap starts. "Good job, Penryn. You failed and you abused an animal in the process. Slow and steady is my new life motto."
I glare at Raffe, swinging one leg over the wolf's neck. "You suck."
"I'm so intimidated." He leans forward, placing his hands on his hips. "And, since you lost, you have to call me sir."
"That was not in the Terms and Conditions!" I chastise, scowling bitterly at him. I slide from the wolf's back, the impact of my feet on the ground causing a considerable amount of dust to spiral from the floor. "We agreed on no such thing!"
"How would you know what's in the Terms and Conditions?" Raffe teases, not even bothering to assist me as I unload Paige from the panting wolf. "Nobody ever checks them out."
"Except you, I'm guessing," I mutter sourly, lacing my fingers through Paige's.
"Exactly. A man must be thorough, you see."
Most likely, I would've responded with something like how a woman is superior – something along those lines. But, at that exact moment, we're ambushed by the citizens of Sercem Domu.
Grinning faces, toothy smiles, sparkling eyes – they chant out praises for either one of us, complimenting the Fallen angel's grace in air and the wolf's celestial strength. They crowd and cluster in massive groups, each talking in the same moment. Some are dressed modernly, others look as if they'd fallen out of some reenactment. Some wear armor, others sundresses and T-shirts. Both the youngest toddler and the oldest crone seem to crowd around us with smiles and greetings, each having something separate and individualized to say; most of their salutations and compliments are lost in the din of the crowd. They reach out, almost as if to touch me. One old lady does touch me, straightening my shirt and scolding me severely to keep a better eye on my clothes. However, even in her ancient silvery eyes, there is not an emotion to be found but mirth and warm welcome.
"My God," shouts one of them with shaggy black hair and a face checkered with acne, "you truly know how to ride a wolf! Tell me, have you done it before? We can ride together!"
"You look like you like lamb," decides one middle-aged woman with a Spanish accent, rosy cheeks, and a warm smile as she approaches Raffe. "Do you want it roasted? Roasted lamb is a favorite of all my children – I make it with garlic and gravy and a secret ingredient. I shall share with you my recipe if you like it."
"Did you see where Tabitha is?" inquires another, this one too with a Spanish accent, his brown eyes probing me. "Bryon may come any moment, and Tabitha tends to nip…"
"Man, lighten up," slurs one with a Mexican accent, pounding on the Hispanic's back. "Let's get a beer together or something."
Empathetically, one girl drops down to her knees before Paige, crying out in pity. "Oh, you poor child! Come with me – my family owns the bakery on the main street, I can convince my father to give you and your sister both some cheese bread, hot from the oven."
"Maybe in a bit," I answer for Paige, drawing my baby girl closer to my side and away from the other female's saccharine glare. "I do love cheese bread."
Before she can answer, she is swept into the crowd once more.
"Tell me," inquires a winged Nephilim with especially vibrant feathers, "how exactly did you do that landing thing, black wings? Can you show me how? Because I know people that can do things like that, but they're always too busy to show me."
"You must eat more!" criticizes the same Spanish woman that had approached Raffe earlier, taking my hand in hers and stroking at it as if I am a pathetic puppy for her to treasure. "Look at you, slender as a twig in on a dead branch! You will break if you do not eat more! You, too, look like you like lamb. I shall make you lamb as well."
"Uh, no, that's seriously not necessary," I begin, but she is lost in the crowd, beaming about her new houseguests.
"Do you mind?" growls Raffe as he jerks a wing from some stranger's stroking.
"No, no," grunts the hippie-styled old man, his gaze still fixed on the leathery folds. "It's just, that color, man, mixed with that texture. It's weird to see that on an angel."
"An angel?" mutters the Spanish boy that had questioned about Tabitha. But before I can truly focus on him, his scathing gaze is lost as a formally dressed old man blabbers on about wondering which hotel we'd like to stay in, and what rooms.
"Bryon, God bless the King, enjoys the courtyard suites," he discusses, patting my forearm with a moist, wrinkled hand. "Now, I'm not sure what you'd prefer, but those are one of our best options if you are anything like him. Of course, the tower rooms are better suited if you've got three in your party, two beds" – his eyes dart questioningly to Raffe – "but, personally, I prefer the courtyard. You have a lovely view of the gardens and the main square."
"Hey, you look cool!" A girl maybe a year older than me punches my arm. "Any kid that can pull off a stunt like that is alright in my book. Come hang out with me sometime, will you?"
"He's Raphael," realizes the Spanish kid, his eyes widening. That sole statement, lost in the sea of speech to anyone else, stands out like a shout to me, but no one seems to pay him any heed. I freeze, studying his face, unsure of what I should do.
Stepping forward, the Hispanic roars, "He's Raphael! Stay back! Get back! That is Raphael!"
At first, everyone falls silent, absorbing his words in complete quiet. But the moment they hit, everyone scrabbles backwards as if they'd been shocked by an electric fence encasing Raffe and I, amassing behind the boy. They whisper and murmur to one another, eyes that had not long before been sparkling with jolly intentions now gleaming with the sharp glint of terror. A few fight-type men and women separate from the crowd to stand as a border, but none dare assist the Hispanic, the head of their crusade.
Paige looks up at me with puzzlement, something close to heartbreak gleaming in her eyes – how she'd adored the attention, and now, they've all retreated, called back by fear and distrust. I squeeze her hand consolingly and glare hostilely at the boy heading the pack.
Upon closer inspection, I realize he's not a boy at all, but rather, a well-developed man in his mid twenties, lean like a coyote and muscled like a wolf. He's clad in a dark, leather-sheathed shirt with pockets meant for knives and blades. On his back, the hilts of two dual swords gleam, each going vertical instead of diagonal like I've seen at the movies – perhaps it's better suited for the milky wings he extends to shield more people. His hair is close-cropped and his eyes are the softest shade of chocolate brown.
"And this is the welcoming party I get for winning," Raffe complains, curling his lip and crossing his arms. "Next time, Penryn, you get all the 'glory'. I at least thought that there was going to be lamb."
"I'm still feeding him lamb," the Hispanic lady whispers to the boy. "And his señorita, too – look at her, skinny as a twig. I cannot look at her without wincing. Poor, starved girl."
"Mother," the boy hisses, "not now, please."
"As it so happens," drawls a familiar voice with a familiar cocky tone and a familiar confident stalk, "you won't have to kill either one of them, Emilio. It so happens that Penryn Young – ahem, or shall I say, Penryn Young – is under great protection and it would be extremely unwise to unseat those protecting her. It also so happens that Pigeon-Bat inadvertently saved his ass by befriending her. For whatever reason, we're not killing him, either. Shame. They say he has blue blood, and I'd like to know if that's the case."
"Hugo?" I bark in surprise as he saunters up, smirking all the while. "How did you – do I want to know?"
He rolls his eyes as if my stupidity is simply unbearable to him. "I told you Scruffy's one ability was speed. I mean, the only serious competitor here was Tabitha, and we all know that Tabitha doesn't follow rules." The clumped Nephilim mutter soft agreements, all still shying from Raffe. "It's simple logic, legs can carry you faster and faster and faster because of basic physics and anatomy, right? Especially four legs – those are just epic. But wings? You've got to drift and climb up in the air to get a dive and even then it's risky. You've got to flap, which, technically, doesn't propel you forward so much as it does up. While the two of you were blissfully drifting about up there, Scruffy was loping along at a moderate speed. And he still won."
"Fast dog," approves of someone in the crowd.
Hugo's face is that of someone who'd just been slapped in the face by an utter stranger. "Excuse you." He pivots, akimbo, and waves a finger at the Nephilim. "Call him a dog again and I swear I will unleash my fury. Even God's Wrath will be running for cover. My mutt is a wolf, not some lapdog, thank you." Scruffy pads up, grinning, almost as if his senses alerted him to the subject of the conversation – he licks once up Hugo's face and jumps back, tail thrashing between his legs.
"Excuse Scruffy and I," Hugo amends. "We're going to find a rope somewhere and have an epic game of tug. Don't kill him unless Daine says so, and don't kill her or I'll kill you."
"You heard the man." The Hispanic, Emilio, folds his white wings tightly against his back once more. His eyes still are distrustful on Raffe's, but at least he's not barring his way. "Just be careful. Mother, do you want a lift home so you can start on your lamb?"
"Good son," she praises, landing a wet kiss on her boy's cheek. Emilio smiles with concealed happiness and rolls his eyes amorously.
With rosy cheeks and a broad smile, the rounded lady allows herself to be lifted once more in her son's arms and carried effortlessly back to the town's outskirts. He walks off, waving a halfhearted farewell to those that don't scurry off as well – his smile brushes against my gaze, and, for a second, it almost seems like a warning. But then Emilio is gone as quickly as he'd arrived, swallowed by the tumult of the busy town.
Surprisingly, only a few scuttle off with their tails tucked. True, those that do stay have actions more subdued by the gnawing fright they undoubtedly harbor in their guts after so many centuries of running from Raffe, but they hide it well. They still question him, though more politely. They still offer me places to stay the night and the names of the best restaurants, but they only advise places for one, and shoot me desperate warnings with their eyes the same as Emilio had.
Evidently, they no longer want to lead us any closer to their town – not without Bryon's support. When he does come, though, everything changes.
His laugh is the initial greeting he offers, as thunderous as an angel's pounding voice and as beautiful as a nightingale's sweet midnight melody. The throbbing cadence is almost a personal invitation to some sort of joy and warmth – the affection in the laugh has the same effect on me as it has on the rest of his people.
"Friends!" Bryon cries, twirling his staff in one hand and extending the other for an embrace. "Oh, it has been too long since I have visited a place like this!" Something akin to joyous tears glitter in his eyes, tears that sparkle like stars fallen from the heaven, trapped in the bronze pupils of the man for this glorious moment and this moment solely. His hair is ruffled, his clothes unkempt, and his cloak hanging limply around his feet, but his grin is as heavenly as ever.
People drop everything at the sound of his voice. The group that'd knitted around Raffe and I, the group trained on little inquisitions and polite observations, stampede to him without question nor hesitation, from the youngest to the oldest. Nephilim that'd originally fled from Raffe's presence return, and those that'd never bothered to welcome us at all abandon their crafts and chores to dash to his side, leaving trails of dust behind them. Even a few wolves sprint over with grinning faces. They wrap him in a giant embrace, circling around him like the petals of a rosebud, hugging each other and tightening like a massive cuddle flower.
I laugh at Bryon's delighted expression from the middle of the pack – his height allows him a clear sight over all of their heads. He winks at me once, but he doesn't try to break their embraces, answering each one of their badgering questions and layered statements evenly and with great interests to each one.
"They adore him," I whisper to Raffe, a warm smile somehow creeping its way onto my face. "Look at that. They completely and utterly adore him."
"He has done them many a great favor over the years," concedes Raffe with a nod of his head. "After all, it takes quite a monster to ward me off, doesn't it?"
Transition chapters. Don't you just love them?
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