Speaker 1: A forest of earth and mind.
Speaker 2: An Arcane Heart Studio production, created and written by Ainsley Bay.
Speaker 3: Chapter nineteen, The Price Dawn is coming, you can feel it.
The night outside is shifting, getting lighter, thinner. The stars
are fading. We are in the Great Hall. The fay
are waiting. They are standing in a loose semicircle near
the fireplace, looking bored. The envoy is examining a painting
of Kir's grandfather, tracing the brushstrokes the critical finger to
the side. The cousin, who still has no name, is
standing perfectly still. He isn't rearranging wood, He isn't touching anything.
He is just examining. His eyes track every corner of
the house, even movement of the family, cataloging everything. He
seems almost lost in the wonder of the house. Malcolm
stands in the center of the room. He looks exhausted.
He's aged ten years in a single night. I have decided,
Malcolm says. His voice is raspy. The envoy turns, Oh,
do tell, we will give you our ancestors. Malcolm says,
it is a blood line of power and history. The
envoy nods. He is lost in thought. It is a
powerful offer. Some would say generous to give us your history.
I don't know what Malcolm means, but the envoy seems
to be considering it. We all wait. Keir looks shocked
at what Malcolm has said, but doesn't object. Coy looks
like he would like to be anywhere, but in that
room the envoy is steal. I wonder if they are
thinking conferring with the others through some form of telepathy,
or if time just works differently for them. He steps forward.
It is a generous offer, but it does not bring balance.
His head moves from one of us to the other. Choose.
Kir steps forward, Take me, I gasp, Kir. No, The
envoy looks at Kir. You are the heir that tips
the balance in your favor. It is a generous offer.
But no, If not the alpha or the air, then
who Kir practically shouts the words what do you want?
All of the fee turn and look at Koi. Koi
is shaking. He's standing behind Malcolm, clutching the back of
his father's coat like a toddler McCoy. Malcolm says softly.
Cooi looks up dad. Malcolm turns and looks at Koi.
We are not offering you up son. He turns and
glares at the Faye envoy. They cannot take you. The
envoy stares at Malcolm. We can, he says, but it's
clear he doesn't want to. Koi is shaking. It's clear
that Malcolm is telling him he's not going to be taken,
while the Fay are telling him he should volunteer. Our
patience is not without limit, the envoy says, I offered
my history. Malcolm shouts. The envoy says nothing. The air
is heavy. It feels as if something very bad will
happen if Koi doesn't volunteer. In the Fay move to
take him, Malcolm will do something foolish. Kir will do
something foolish. Kir. I can't let him die. He is
too magnificent, too wonderful, too much a part of me,
and I don't think. I just move. I step in
front of Koi, No, I say. The envoy stops, his
looks intrigued, Ink girl, take me. I volunteer, Sorchaw saved me.
There is no better balance than mutual sacrifice. In the
periphery of my awareness, I hear Kir screaming no. But
the attention of the envoy is on me, and reality
shifts to just him and me. Or understand balance better
than they do. The envoy nods toward the Slate family.
Everything seems to be moving in slow motion. It is
just me, an envoy. We accept this offer, and time
is suddenly not moving slow. It is moving fast. Div
Keir screams as he lunges for me neck. The envoy
snaps his fingers. Keir freezes. The whole Slate family is frozen.
They look at me with sadness and horror in their eyes. Kir,
my sweet, wonderful Keir looks so incredibly sad. I want
to change my mind, but I know I can't him
sad is better than him dead. The envoy reaches out
and takes my hand. His hand is warm, surprisingly warm,
like sun baked stone. Come, he says, the sun is rising.
I love you. I whisper to here, and then the
world dissolves into light. Chapter twenty.
Speaker 1: The cousin. She is gone. One second she was there, defiant, terrified, beautiful,
and the next the air simply folded around her. No,
I scream, It tears my throat. I lunged for the
spot where she was standing, but there's nothing there, just carpet,
just the lingering scent of a world gone wrong. I stumble,
hitting the floor hard As reality returns to normal. Where
is she? I wore scrambling up? I noticed a face
still in the room, the cousin. He is watching me,
an almost amused look on his face. I rushed to him.
Bring her back. A Faye attache barely moves. He certainly
doesn't flinch. Balance has been restored, he says, calmly, bring
her back. I shift fully, this time, claws fangs, the
wolf taking the driver's seat. I launched myself at him.
I had an invisible wall three feet from his face.
I slide to the floor, nothing broken, but my whole
side will be bruised. Do it again? The face says,
he seems excited by my attempts to hurt him. I'm
his own little reality show.
Speaker 2: You tricked her?
Speaker 1: A Fay doesn't reply. He turns to Malcolm. Malcolm is
staring at the spot where Vive disappeared. He looks sick.
What happens to her? Malcolm whispers, she is a guest
of the hollow now. The Fay says, he doesn't elaborate,
what does that even mean, I shout. Meaning in the
hollow is different than meaning here. Your question makes no sense.
The attache turns to Malcolm. I will need a place
to retire. Malcolm finally returns to his senses. He looks
at the Fay, a cold fury in his eyes. A
place to retire. We are a pleasing sortya. The pack
demands it. We will protect you, assist you, and become
part of your family. The Fay again looks amused at
the possibility. You mean you will spy on us. I
just say the words, too numb to shout any more.
The Fay ignores me. He is looking at Malcolm. Come
with me. Malcolm finally says resignation and ignore dripping from
his voice. I follow, wanting to say something, but not
sure what to say. My whole life suddenly feels so hopeless.
I never realized that my hope was viv It is
a gift that she gave me and that the Fey
have taken away. Be ent her sorchez room and the
cousin shakes their head. No. He doesn't say anything else,
so Malcolm escorts into the man guest room. No, a
little used living airy in the basement. No, He even
takes him to his own room. This is my master.
Sweet Kai and I rarely are invited into the room.
It is father's secret place where he lived his life
with mother, whose death seemed to have distorbed any joy
in him. The wall is stone part of the mountain side,
or is the mountain side part of the house. The
Fay looks intrigued. The house is won with the land.
This room is pleasant to me. My father looks horrified
as he realizes the Fay may take the only connection
remaining with my mother. But then the Fay's eyes light
up and literally glow. What room is that? The cousin's
words are full of wonder. He is pointing through my
father's bathroom and into his walking closet, which is packed
with suits and shirts. That's my closet, Malcolm, revise. The
Fay walks to it and we follow. He enters and
his hands flow among the hanging clothing. He looks at father.
This reminds me of the trees from the hollow, with
their branches hanging down from above. The cousin lowers himself
to the floor and looks up, extending his hand to
touch the pant legs of suit pants. Yes, this human
forest is my new home. I look at Malcolm, who
simply shakes his head. Fine, I'll have the carpenters block
the entry to the bathroom and build you a door
to the hall. A cousin just ignores him, running his
fingers over my father's clothes. I'd laugh if it weren't
so frightening. I leave my father to manage the cousin.
They are no Sortia. But then again, Sorsha lived with
humans for over a hundred years. Perhaps the cousin will
get there. I leave the house and shift. I need
to let my emotions run free. I look off toward
the hollow, reach up and touch the bond in my chest.
It's still there, but it feels stretched thin, like a
string pulled across an ocean. I will find you, I
whispered to the forest. I don't care about the pact.
I don't care about the deck. I dig my claws
into ground. I will burn their whole world down to
get you back.
Speaker 3: Chapter twenty one, The Closet.
Speaker 1: I find my father in the closet, not metaphorically, literally,
I've been looking for him for twenty minutes. The daily
briefing was scheduled for nine sharp, and Malcolm Slate is
never late. He is a man who treats punctuality like
a moral imperative and a clock like a commandment. When
using in the study, isn't in the kitchen, and isn't
on the terrace, staring broodingly at the tree line. I
start to worry. I checked the perimeter clear. I checked
the basement clear. I check the garage. The Mercedes is
still there, gleaming and cold. It isn't until I pass
the master suite that I hear it. A low, rumbling murmur,
my father's voice and another voice, lighter, reedy, with a
cadence that sounds like dry leaves skittering on pavement. It
is coming from the bedroom. I push the door open.
The master suite is empty, the bed made with military precision.
But the gore to the walk hyphen and calls it
a room large enough to be a small apartment in
most cities, is standing ajar. The woolen canopy is dense.
The reedy voice says it is a suit collection. My
father replies his voice is tight, strained, and you are
wrinkling the ARMANI I step into the doorway and stop
the closet is changed. It's still a closet technically. The
rows of hanging suits are still there. The shelves of
shoes are still lined up against the back wall. But
the light is wrong. It's dappled, shifting, filtering down from
a ceiling that looks less like plaster and more like
a sky. The air smells of cedar and old magic
and mothballs. No, not mothballs, something sharper, like dying flowers.
My father is standing in the narrow aisle between the
winter coats and the dress shirts. He is not alone.
The cousin is sitting on the floor. He has arranged
a circle of ties around him, like a ritual boundary,
silks and reds and blues and grays, twisted into shapes
that hurt my eyes if I look at them too long.
He is holding a pair of dress ears, and as
I watch, he reaches up and snaps a loose thread
from the hem of my father's favorite charcoal blazer, pruning.
He murmurs, dropping the thread into a pile of liment
that looks suspiciously arranged essential for growth, pruning. I say.
The cousin turns to me, and his eyes light up. Yes,
I'm not so old fashioned that I channeled the gruff.
I like the direct and yes, painful efficiency of pruning.
I am a bit of a what do you say,
a rebel, and that you're printing the suits, these suits
that aren't even alive. I still am trying to wrap
my arms around the cousin. He is so different than
sortia hum I could give them life. No, my father
nearly shuts. He turns to me. He looks herod. That's
the only word for it. Malcolm Slight is a man
who has stared down armed federal agents and feral werewolves
without blinking. But standing there in his own closet, squeezed
between a rack of jackets and a fake creature playing
gardener with his wardrobe, he looks defeated. Karenan he says,
thank God, what is happening? He has moved in, Malcolm says,
gesturing vaguely at the cousin. He says, the atmosphere is
conducive to his work. The cousin looks up. His eyes
are black beads, unblinking and entirely devoid of anything human.
He offers me a smile that is all teeth and
no warmth. The air. He says, welcome to the grove.
Do you come to pay tribute to the silk? I
come to get my father for the morning briefing, I say,
keeping my voice steady. I glance at my father. He
clearly would like nothing more in the world than to
have the cousin move out of his closet and to
ask why you chose his closet. I told you, the
cousin says, stroking the sleeve of a navy pinstrike. It
reminds me of the forest. Also, it is dark and
quiet until you arrived. We have guest quarters. I say,
there is a suite in the east waine, a bed, windows,
actual furniture. Do not assess my needs in human terms,
The cousin dismisses. You speak of dead wood forced into
unnatural shapes. Here he gestures to the hanging clothes. The
branches fall and the leaves sway, and suddenly a breeze
blew through the closet, swaying the suits on their hangers.
He refuses to leave. Malcolm says, his voice lowering to
a whisper, that was more of exhaustion than an attempt
to hide his words from the cousin. I tried to
order him out. He told me, my authority has no
purchase in the ruling wood. The one would I dunno.
Malcolm snaps, He's been here since dawn. He calls the
shoe rack the leather cliffs. Kirnan, I have to get dressed.
I have a council meeting at noon. I cannot conduct
pack business in my pajamas. I look at the cousin.
He is currently braiding three silk ties together, a red,
a gold, and a black pattern. Looks like a snake
eating its own tail. Cousin, I say. He ignores me.
Cousin sharper this time. He sighs, a sound like wind
and dead grass. You are loud, like your boots. We
need to discuss your role. My world is balanced, he says,
not looking up. I am the weight on the other
side of the scale. Sortcha, I say, invoking the name
like a weapon. Sortia was more than balance, and he
didn't live in a closet. The cousin pauses. The sheer
still sor Chaw. He says, testing the name. Sor Chaw
was industrious involved. He liked your noisy little world. He
liked your tea and your politics. He was our liaison,
our advisor. He was a gardener who got too attached
to the weeds, the cousin says coldly. He looks up
and for a second the boredom in his eyes is
replaced by something ancient and chilling. I am not sor chaw.
I do not care for your tea. I do not
care for your politics. I am here because the debt
must be paid, and I will pay it from here.
He gestures to the closet from this forest. You are
paying the debt, I say, through clenched teeth. Viviz. I
took a step toward the cousin, and he doesn't look
scared so much as curios. You are lying. I say
the words, and unlike my physical approach, the hit with
what appears to be real force. The cousin stands up.
He looks angry, but I don't care. You are here
to fill a roll, not restore balance, and you are
not filling that role. So you are failing. You are
in fact not bring in balance. You are creating in balance.
It is like a stab the cousin. He staggers a bit,
but then stands upright. He's pissed. I can tell or
at least whatever emotion pissed is with fae. Perhaps I
handled the role differently than sorta what do I care
if you aren't happy? What are you going to do?
Change into a dog and bark at me, and the
cousin laughed in a way that made my blood run cold.
Still I didn't back down. I stared at as impossible ancient,
impenetrable eyes and simply said, I'll go to the hollow
and tell them you are not fulfilling your required roll.
The cousin fell back a step. Fine, I will embrace
this roll, but be careful what you wish for. Dog
Tensions were high, and father broke in. Go Malcolm says
to me, aye, I'll handle this. I nod and back
out of the room. I can't watch. I can't watch
the Alpha the Slay Pack, the most feared predator in
West Virginia, argue with a magical creature about whether his
pants or leaves while discussing the contractual details of a
packed signed when George Washington was president or even earlier.
I leave him to his rule and the shears. The
closet door clicked shoot behind me, but I don't hear
the latch catch. I hear the sound of a forest sighing. Oh,
was that my father? Maybe both. I walk down the hall,
the weight in my chest just a fraction lighter. I
scared him. He understands that he has to honor the pact.
It's something, and we're going to survive this. How if
my father doesn't murder him for wounding the ARMANI.
Speaker 3: First chapter twenty two, The water.
Speaker 1: I wake up thirsty. It's the kind of thirst that
makes your throat feel like dust and will not let
you sleep. I stumble out of bed, careful not to
wake The space beside me is empty, right viv Is gone,
gone to the hollow, gone to pay a debt that
wasn't hers. And suddenly a dry throat doesn't feel quite
so bad. I close my eyes for a second, letting
the pain wash over me. It's still not a familiar feeling.
I don't ever want it to be a familiar feeling.
It's a constant dull ache and the sayer of my
chest where the bond used to hum with such strength
it made everything better. It isn't broken, exactly, It's just quiet,
like a part of the forest where the thorns and
brush don't grow. Because a trail lived there decades earlier.
It's not a trail anymore, but the trail is still there.
I push the feeling down. I have work to do,
a pack to lead, a father, to manage a closet
dwelling faye, to keep from destroying the house. I look
at the clock. It's five am. I'm not going to
be able to get back to sleep, so I decide
to face the day. I walk into the bathroom. The
tiles are under my feet. I turn on the shower.
The water's ice cold, just the way I like it.
I climb in and something feels wrong. I look around
before realizing it's the water. I breathe in through my nose.
It's definitely the water. It is missing the slight chemical
smell it usually has after going through the house filtration system.
It smells like slate run no. I whisper, thinking that
the cousin had turned off the filtration system and fed
the creak water directly into the house, because of course
he did. I cup the water in my hand and
take a drink. As I swallow, I feel my feet
lift off the floor just an inch. I'm hovering. I
look around and the walls are now bark and neon.
Light is the sun. No no, I grabbed the wall
of the shower to anchor myself. Things quickly returned to normal.
The shower is a shower. The light is a light,
But the water it's still not right. I toss on
my robe and storm out of the bedroom, down the
hall and straight to my father's room. I don't bother knocking.
I marched through the bedroom, past a bed where Malcolm
is sleeping fitfully, and bang on the closet door. Cousin,
the canopy is resting, and the stones have welcomed me,
comes the muffled reply. Open the door. The door swings open.
The cousin is lying in a pile of shoes. You
possess no rhythm, he complains. Dawn is for stillness, for
the gathering of dew. What did you do to the water,
he blinks slowly. The water was sad, the pipes were evil,
and you hurt the water with a machine. It was cool.
You enchanted the plumbing. I liberated the water, he corrects. Now,
the water remembers the sky, it remembers the stars. It
has the spirit of the hollow. It made me float,
and the walls look like bark. It's a wonderful enchantment,
is it not? You see the world as it should be,
not as it is. You poisoned our water to cause hallucinations.
Change it back. I cannot a song. One's song cannot
be unsung. We have carpenters coming today, I shout, human
carpenters to build a wall for your closet, because you
won't live in a room like a normal person. Ah
the wood shapers, he looks interested. Will they bring offerings?
They will bring thirst, They will want water, and if
they drink from the tap and start floating, we have
a problem. Then give them wine, he suggests. Humans like wine.
It makes impliable. I am not giving the construction crew
wine at nine in the morning. Then let them float,
he shrugs, closing his eyes. Perhaps they will build better
if they are closer to the world as it should be.
I slam the closet door. The carpenters arrive at nine shark.
There are three of them, big men with tool belts
and heavy boots and the kind of practical, no nonsense
aura that usually makes me feel grounded. I know the foreman,
while the others are familiar in that small town way
you've seen them around or maybe even hired them in
the distant past, but you don't know their names. The
easy familiarity is nice and one of the things I
love about small towns, but today it makes me panic.
Morning here, says Frank the foreman. He's my family since
I was a boy. He built the gazebo on the
south lawn. He fixed the roof after the storm of eight,
which was actually an invasion from a rival pack that
ended with a fight on the roof. He thinks we're eccentric,
wealthy recluses. Frank, I say, blocking the entrance to the kitchen.
Good to see you. Ready to get started on that partition,
he says, we'll need access to the master suite. Of course,
you know the drill straight up the stairs. Later, I'm
introduced to Dave, who comes down and asks about a
glass of water. Of course he does, and with that
easy small town familiarity, he asks, mind if it used
to sink. He weighs a water bottle. Waterfilt is broken.
I reply, trying to sound casual. Want to die coke?
Speaker 2: Uh?
Speaker 3: Sure?
Speaker 1: He looks disappointed, which is a lot better than looking suspicious.
Two hours later, disaster strikes. I'm in the study, trying
to focus on contracts when I hear a shout from upstairs.
What in the holy hell? I sprint up the stairs.
I find Frank in the master bedroom. He's standing by
the closet door, staring at the wall. It looks like
stone correction, it actually is stone, and standing in front
of it is the cousin. Uh, Frank, that's Sorchaw's cousin.
He's going to be taking over as our butler. You know,
Sorchow is getting up there in age. Frank ignores the
funny looking dude in the closet and points to the
wall that was wood an hour ago. I made it
more like the earth. The cousin replies calmly, Yeah, Frank.
Cousin here is helping redecorate. He found Frank Lloyd Writes's
old plans, and you know how he wanted the house
to blend in with the creek and land. Cousin is
managing the redesign to get it closer to those original plans.
Frank looks at me with a face that's half shock
and half curiosity. I swear that wall was sedar an
hour ago. You must have just glanced at it. Frank
Cousin tore that out and had it updated days ago.
I give Cousin a look that I hope reads his.
Please don't say anything else. Frank looks a cousin. Cousin,
you can call him couz, but you may want to
get to know him better. Before doing that. I lightly
punch Frank's shoulder, but I'm not quite sure he's buying it. Finally,
he turns back to his almost finished wall and the
door that his crew were still working on. Sure here,
he turns to Cousin and says, nice work on the wall,
because and to my immense gratitude. Cousin looks pleased but
doesn't say anything, and the men go back to their work.
Chapter twenty three, The dow Drop.
Speaker 3: The silence is loud, Don't get me wrong. I lived
in Philadelphia. You'd kill for silence at times. But this silence,
it's not an escape from noise. It is the noise,
but doesn't make sense.
Speaker 1: I know.
Speaker 3: But here in the whispering hollow, silence isn't just the
absence of noise. It's a thing, a weight, a texture.
It presses against my ear drums like water pressure at
the bottom of the ocean. I am sitting on a
cushion made of woven spiderwebs. Don't think about it, viv
just go with it. Around me in a perfect circle,
set twelve fay lords and ladies. They are beautiful, terrifying,
and completely motionless. We are staring at a flower correction.
We are staring at a single dewdrop resting on the
petal of a flower. We have been doing this for
forty five minutes. My leg is asleep, my nose itches,
and my brain is screaming. Don't fidget, don't fidget. Don't fidget.
I fidget. I shift my weight. The spiderweb cushion moves softly.
It's barely a sound, quieter than a breath, but in
this oppressive silence, it sounds like a gunshot. Twelve pairs
of eyes shift toward me. They don't blink, They just
slide liquid and cold to fix me with a collective
stare of mild disappointment. The envoy, the one who refuses
to tell me his name and anything other than unpronounceable sounds,
and the one who took me from slate fall, is
soitting directly across from me. He looks like a statue
carved from birch bark stillness. He whispers. His voice doesn't
travel through the air. It blooms inside my head. The
dewdrop contains the universe. Observe, I am observing. I whisper back.
My voice sounds rasping and crude in the crystalline air.
It's damp, it's round, it's very shiny. Look deeper. I
look deeper. I see water surface tension, refraction of light.
I see the physics of it. I see the biology
of the petal beneath it. It's going to evaporate, I say.
The fae to my left, a woman with hair like
Spanish moss, winces. Time is a construct. The drop is eternal. No,
it's not. I argue forgetting to whisper. It's h point
two point oh point oh point. The ambient temperature here
is what seventy degrees, humidity is maybe sixty percent. That
drop has twenty minutes tops. The envoy closes his eyes.
You are a loud ink girl. My name is viv
Your mind is a storm, chaos, noise. How do you
endure it? It called context switching. He sighs. We are
in the high feast of contemplation. It is a sacred
communion with the ephemeral. Please be empty. I can't be empty.
I'm full of questions. Questions are anchors, he says, they
tether you to the mundane. Release them. But who put
the drop there? I ask? Did it form naturally? Or
did someone place it? Is it a specific drop? Does
it have a name? Is it Steve the dewdrop? The
moss lady makes a sound like a snapping twig. Stop.
I'm just curious. You guys sit here for hours staring
at water. Don't you ever wonder where it came from?
It just is? The envoy says. That is enough. Not
for me. I stand up, my knees pop another gunshot
in the silence. I can't do this. I have ADDHD
or just humanity. I need stimulation, I need context.
Speaker 2: Sit.
Speaker 3: The envoy commands. The word carries weight, actual physical weight.
I feel it pressed down on my shoulders, trying to
force me back onto the cushion. But I don't sit.
I push back, not with magic, but with simple human stubbornness,
with rizzo grit, as my mom would say, with the
sheer refusal to be controlled that has defined my entire life.
No I the pressure increases. It feels like gravity has
doubled my bones ache. I said, sit, I grit my teeth,
and I said no, I start humming. It's a boy
band song for some reason, and I just laugh at
the ridiculousness of it. It's instinctive, a defense mechanism against
the crushing silence, and the song that pops into my
head is the most annoying, persistent earworm. I know I
want it that way, the Backstreet Boys, God help me,
but really it's catchy, don't judge. I hum it louder.
The fay recoil, physically recoil. It's like I just threw
a handful of gravel into their faces.
Speaker 2: What is that?
Speaker 3: The moss lady gasps, covering her delicate, pointy ears. It
is dissonance. It loops, it resolves, and then loops again.
It's a classic. I say, fighting the pressure. Tell me why,
ain't nothing but a heartache. I'm not even singing the lyrics.
It's like they won't let me, but I get the
words out. The envoice stands up. The pressure vanishes instantly.
He looks horrified. Your mind, he says, it is broken.
I can't help but laugh. That's what a former boyfriend
told me. It is a virus. It sticks, it repeats.
He rubs his temples. I can hear it echoing in
the ether. Tell me, why stop it? It is interrupting
the contemplation. Then let me go. I say, I don't
fit here. I'm noise, I'm chaos. I'm ruining your vibe.
The envoy looks at the other lords. They look terrified.
The sanctity of their silence is crumbling under the assault
of late nineties pop Go, he says, finally, walk far away,
leave the circle. Can I have a snack?
Speaker 1: Go?
Speaker 3: I walk away, I don't run. I walk, humming the
back Street boys, and I watch the beautiful, terrifying fay
lord flinch with every step. I reach the edge of
the clearing and step into the woods. The trees here
are silver, the leaves purple. It's breathtakingly beautiful. I find
a stream purple water naturally, and sit on a rock,
real rock, hard, uncomfortable, solid. I miss here. I miss
his warmth, his scent, the way he looks at me
like I'm the only thing in the world. I miss
the pack. I even miss Malcolm and his terrifying eyebrows.
But I'm not helpless. I look at the stream. Okay, hollo,
I whisper. You want stillness, you want silence, You pick
the wrong girl. I pick up a rock and throw
it into the water. Splash, ripple, spread outward, disturbing the
perfect reflection of the strange violet sky. If they think
the Backstreet Boys are bad, wait until they hear Baby Shark.
I'm going to be the worst guess they've ever had.
Speaker 2: The shadows where the light one stood, sillen whispers in
the mt. The winded cry, It.
Speaker 1: Calls the man.
Speaker 2: The fleeting ancles signal marks, chosen fres