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HAIGHA STOOD, sliding his chair across the hardwood and leaving the wine in his glass sloshing. A look of pity and concern crossed his eyes, he pursed his lips. “It’s what Jest would have wanted, milady-” “What he wanted does not matter! Don’t you all see? He’s gone! Dead! It’s my fault for walking in the door of the Looking Glass, then he never would have had to save me from being attacked by Peter Peter, and his head would not be lying in a field of rotten pumpkins! How does that not sink into your thick heads that this is my fault?!” Once again, no one spoke. Suddenly she was shaking. Sobbing. The hate and pain and angering rage poured out of her like melted butter. Cath peered down at her hands. Scars danced all over her right palm, the places where the axe had but grazed her skin. Their story was not over, something told her.
It all ended too soon.