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There was a rabbit in the doorway. Ears aslant, pink nose
twitching, it paused for a second beneath the slight
overhang of the roof as though asking permission to enter.
Where he sat before a fire dwindled to meager embers and
dying coals, Flint saw the ice frozen on its back, the snow
clumped between its toes. Part of him sighed for pity, and
part decided he must bid his wits goodbye.
And behind him the horrible squealing of Tas's pipe settled
gently into a sweet, low song.
The rabbit moved then, hunched forward, and fell onto
its side, eyes wide as though it could no more believe that it
now waited a foot away from the old dwarf than Flint
could.
The storm, Flint told himself, it's only seeking shelter. . .
. Easier to believe that than to believe that his wits had
frozen solid around some mad dream. Moving slowly, he
reached his hand out to the rabbit. He had not Tanis's way
with animals. That lad could call a bird to hand, silence a
chattering squirrel in the tree with a whisper. Or so it had
often seemed to Flint. But the rabbit accepted the old
dwarf's touch and quivered only a little.
He gathered up the little creature in both hands, felt the
quick race of its heart, and moved his thumb carefully over
its broad feet
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