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Even more inviting than her lips, however, was the purely
feminine shape of her figure; since coming of age this
summer, she had to slap men's hands more often than she
had to slap at bugs.
It was different, though, with Seron. Oh, he wanted to
bed her and made no pretense about it, but he truly cared for
her and made that clear in a thousand different ways. He
helped patch the roof of her family's cottage without asking
for so much as a cup of water in return. He gave her
painting lessons, teaching her everything from mixing
colors to the techniques of his brushstroke. And when she
was terribly sick with an unknown disease - and looked like
a particularly ugly dwarf he had once painted - Seron risked
his own health to help care for her.
The two of them leaned over the bar near each other,
the sea-faring picture between them. "You're wasting your
time working in this tavern," Seron said earnestly. "I've said
it from the very beginning - you're smart, talented,
perceptive; you can do more with your life than just serve
ale."
"You're only saying I'm smart," teased Kyra, "because I
like your work."
He smiled, but shook his head. "I really mean it," he
insisted.
Involved in their intimate discussion, Kyra paid no
attention to the growing clamor of angry voices calling out
for service
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