‘What?’ Roding snapped, coming quickly to tower above the window seat. She was always the last person to exit after the crowds had stampeded, trailing slowly behind them like dust. She was not Madame Melusine Valade. Everything was fresh and bright, from the kindly manners of the Frutigen cobbler, who hammered mountain nails into her boots, to the unfamiliar wild flowers that spangled the wayside.
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