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Summary
Lorraine's eyes are like wintry agate marbles. Dead off-green in their immaculate limn of eyeliner. And yet somehow warm, stone containing the memory of heat, of the earth's magma beneath the glacial crust. Delphine wants to burrow into her and drown, immerse herself in that molten iron core so that the damp chill of freezing Berlin winters and the cold of yet colder wars finally melts from her bones and never, ever fucking returns.