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Damaris and I dressed in the dim hush that came before full dawn, when the villa still held its breath and the fountain in the garden sounded like a whisper spoken into a sleeping ear. She moved with the careful habits of a lifetime—quiet feet, quick hands, a glance toward the doorway as if Felix might appear with his tablet and his red sash and his dislike. Yet Felix no longer owned the corridors with his sandals and his venom. The house did not tremble for him. The old reflex remained in Damaris’s bones, though, because fear did not disappear merely because a master spoke manumission aloud.
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