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Mother's rimestock sat there on the shelf. I'd left it there after she died, watched it glow every single night since then, calling me to pick it up, pore through its pages, use the magic accumulating as it waited. Tristan would arrive soon, my first visitor in literally years. There would be no way to hide that glow. Even wrapping the old book in fabric and stashing it in a drawer wouldn't quench that sickly green light. What to do?

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rimestock (1662 -1834)
1. n. old almanac with runic writings

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