Story no. 19. 

“There you are, my lovely,” Zirach said, tugging the last strap tight. “How does that feel?”

Fia looked down at the brass limb. The sorcerer had added three sections to increase the length so it matched her other arm. The hand had been made entirely anew from steel cogs and copper plating. She wiggled the fingers. Wires wrapped her stump, one continuing up the back of her skull under her hair. The wires somehow carried her thoughts down into the metal arm so it moved almost – not quite – as easily under her direction as her own flesh did.

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Story no. 18. 

My husband spends most of his evenings working on the literary magazine for which he is assistant editor.

Leina, one of my friends, asked him about it once: “Doesn’t it bother you – when you care so much about literature – to work as a censor?”

He shrugged. We were eating dinner, and he forked another caramelized root vegetable (he had done the shopping, and I didn’t recognize the plant) into his mouth. “I think of it more like quality control.”

“Really?” Leina sounded like she was being strangled.

“Really.” Hassur took another bite and smiled thinly at her.

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