. . .

The hours pass and the rain fades to a trickle. The last few scissors are directionless, aimless, they are lit only by the candle-lights and flash-lights of the world below and these things are compromising their scissors-loyalties.

Eldri staggers out into the night.

This is grace. This is what grace is, what it means, at least to him:

Emily is alive.

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