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Elara thought of the town’s children playing on the rocks, of fishermen setting out with nets frayed by hope, of the ledger’s half-finished lines. She laid the map across her knees and began to write, pen scratching the parchment in a rhythm merged with the map’s own pulse. She added names—new coves, safe channels, the hollow where currents sheltered lost things—and she corrected the old notations that had led sailors into teeth of the shoals. As she wrote, the sea around Whitcomb Manor sighed, as if relieved.

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Leda shook her head.