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The men would have grunted in anger to know that Rum was traipsing in the catacombs, but she could not care.
“Will you sing a touch for us, love?” Still the whisper cloaked the identity from Rum, joining the shadows in their ruse.
As she blended from a ballad into a more lively song, she fancied the footsteps that trailed her parroted the rhythm – gravel scattered on each strong beat and returned to smoothness (as the face of a pond would after a rock broke the surface with a plunk!) in the between-times.
The pathway buzzed with carbon copies of the voice and the accompaniment – now two walkers, now ten, now forty, tainted with whispers that flew, barely audible, past the oil lamp until they tangled themselves fatally in Rum’s matted brown hair.
The whispers rose, abated, rose again: waves of intrigue that only men could think up.
“I think she’s gone above ground, men,” said one man, offering his voice as a compass in the blindness.
She failed to discern whether the voice issued from Leah or Gwenyth
with as much care as a child would will their paper boat to safety on a swollen spring-stream
(as the face of a pond would after a rock broke the surface with a plunk!)
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