Very late in the reign of Imperatrix Aurelia Aristana, Pat of the Aristan Foundling Guard celebrated her last Lupercalia festival with a foreign guest, one who'd become a lot less foreign over the decades. She didn't dance quite as she used to, but it was still impressive for a woman of 51. She drank with her younger siblings-in-arms and gave the
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He still wears that young face, smooth and unlined after all these years. And he still has his Pat. His perfect, beautiful Pat.
He sighs, glancing behind him at Arista. "It seems unfair to the rest of the world that one place should be so perfect."
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Pat smiles. "We're very lucky, yes. And you know you'll always be welcome to visit."
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"I know. I'm glad of it."
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"That..was a good festival," Pat then says with a certain...decisiveness.
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"Yes. It was. These past years, they seem more...more golden. Riper. In full bloom, despite it being Spring." He glances at her, then away. There have been moments when it hurt to look at her and see the time in her face.
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He slips an arm around her, offering a bit of support.
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The house itself looks like an English country cottage, right up until you realize the round, white stones of the walls bite at each other with empty upper jaws, and each strand of golden thatch is stiffer and paler than straw. He happily ushers her in, then heads straight for his kitchen to make some chai. At least the floor is honest slate.
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"Lord Atticus said the silliest thing the other day."
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