They were right all along.
Rhine grinned as she wrote down the words in what she called her “production notebook.” From the corner of her eye, she saw a white blur dash past her as she sat at the picnic table in her back yard
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Had they listened to their father, the children would have been safe in their beds on that blustery night. But as it was, they were shivering before a pitiful fire no bigger than a candle flame and just as delicate, while a pack of goblins stood by the cave mouth arguing over what to do with their prize of three healthy children.
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Zia had a singular passion, and she believed, a destiny, to play guitar. She began playing when she was twelve years old. She’d asked for a guitar for her birthday, hoping for an electric. Her father bought her a steel-stringed acoustic instead. Seven years later, she bought herself a blue electric guitar and named it Duke. Zia was a talented guitarist, but her talent didn’t hold a candle to that of her friend Edie, whose instrument of choice was the fiddle. Thick as thieves, peas in a pod, cosmic sisters were they, even after one of them sold her soul to the Devil.
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