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I blinked again, and Arthur was an old man with streaks of gray in his wheat-blond hair and deep furrows wrinkling his skin. Without meaning to, I withdrew, pressing my fingers against my lips.
This too-old image of my bond hesitated, his hand, which had been reaching out toward me, pulling back slightly, just an inch, his brows creasing into a frown. I blinked, and the vision faded. Arthur, the real Arthur, was standing—no, floating—in front of me, his liquid-gold gaze l ...
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