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March 11, 2009

Stacy: Interruptions

I paced slowly backwards, pulling the rake, smoothing the tumbled gravel into orderly lines. With each pass I felt my breathing slow, and my ki become still as a mountain lake.

After recent events this mundane exercise meant more to me than I could explain. Raphael’s mizuko were anathema, their creation an abomination, a stain on his soul that could never be erased. It was my sacred duty to send him to Tamonten for judgement.

A deadly little throwing star appeared in the bamboo shaft of the rake between my hands, and an insolent voice drawled, “Thinking of me, love?”

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