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Biting his lip, Phineas ordered his legs to move around
the desk. Unconsciously drawing a deep breath and
holding it, the human flung himself into the cold, swirl-
ing mist.
Chapter 18
"Dear Flint," Tasslehoff began, stroking each let-
ter with great relish. He stopped and held the paper up
for inspection. The kender was very proud of his pen-
manship. Tas tapped the tip of the borrowed quill against
his chin, not quite sure what to write next. He'd never
written a "solongforever" letter, as Ligg had called it
when he brought the quill, ink, and parchment Tas had
politely requested.
Woodrow and Winnie lay in the shadows on the far
side of the pillars, still asleep this morning after the pre-
vious night's delicious meal of marinated, grilled
chicken, fresh, boiled turnips, bread pudding, and
home-brewed ale. Actually, Woodrow had passed out,
having finally taken Gisella's advice -- "Let loose,
Woodrow!" -- to heart. By his own confession, the fresh-
faced young man had never done more than sip ale at the
family table, so it hadn't taken much to lay him low.
Woodrow's arms stuck out at odd angles, his left cheek
was pressed to the cold floor, and blond hair fanned his
face as it rose and fell with his snoring.
Propped on his elbows on a straw mat, Tasslehoff
kicked a syncopated rhythm against the stone block
wall. The large, empty room was quiet except for the
sound of his boots against the hard wall, Woodrow's rag-
ged snoring, and Winnie's deep, even breathing.
Tas chewed the end of the quill, then pressed its tip to
the parchment again
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