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. Hitching her leather skirt to a height
improper enough to make her puritanical brother fume, she
fetched another drink undisturbed.
Plain, heavy-set Glynnis, next in line after Ruberik and
not the brightest under the best of conditions, giggled sud-
denly, oblivious to the tension in the room. Letting loose a
loud hiccup, she smirked at her older brother. "Fidel is right,
Rubie. Flint only comesh home onesh every twenty years!
And when he does, I'm... I'm..." Glynnis squinted in
concentration. She hiccupped again, and then her head fell
forward. In a second she snored, face down in a pool of ale.
Ruberik rolled his eyes, as if to say, "There she goes again."
"His favorite chair," cut in Bertina, continuing as though
unaware anyone else had spoken. "He'd sit there for hours."
She loose wistfully at Flint in the large, wood-framed chair
with fluffy, goose-down cushions.
Flint already felt uncomfortable enough, listening to the
squabbles of his family. But his sister-in-law's look made
him squirm. He wanted to get up, to sit somewhere else in
the room, but virtually every surface - table, chair, or
floor - already held a sleeping Fireforge
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