Mack was crying, a thin, high pitched wail, which had started Flo crying too and Eostre was a little frazzled. She had a little girl neatly in the crook of each arm, rocking them a little, singing to them in an old, old language for new, new girls.
"Shhhhhh," she murmured. "There you go girls. My Rosamonde, my only Rose, that pleasest best mine
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