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Margaret owen little thieves5/13/2023 “Three? Ten? Forgive me, I never know with you humans.” “Four,” Death said in her soft, dark voice, for Death always knew. ” Fortune tilted her head, and the wreath of coins about her brow shimmered and flipped, changing from copper to coal to silver to gold. Wherever she goes, the milk spoils, the wool tangles, the grain spills. “ We’re stretched thin to feed the twelve other mouths already, and this one- she’s ill luck. “Please,” the woman said, shivering in snow up to her shins. Her other hand was locked around the ragged mitt of a little girl beside her. One hand clutched a dimming iron lantern, which smoldered just bright enough to catch the snowflakes flitting by like fireflies before they melted back into the shadows. Her dull carrot- colored curls twisted from under a woolen cap, her wind- burnt red face as w orn as the th readbare cloak o ver he r should ers. On this night, a woman had come to do just that: meet them. More than that cannot be said, for no two souls see Death a nd Fortune t he same way yet w e all know when we mee t them. They stood tall and unfathomable in the glass- smooth snow, Death in her sh roud of pyre- smoke and shadows, a nd Fortu ne in her gown of gold and bones.
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