“I read somewhere,” says my plague doctor, “that there is power to your kind’s names, isn’t there? Or was it in your voices? I can’t remember. Not right now. But there was a reason your husband sliced out your tongue, was there not? He was afraid, one way or another, of the voice that beats in your lungs, your hurricane scream. You frightened him. How men fear things that can’t be quieted.”
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