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    Summary

    “When?”

    “Amadeo…” he says. I hate when he says my name like that, full of regret.

    “I've accepted my duty,” I say, waving off his pained concern. My master is not as well-practiced at moments of powerlessness as I am. “When?”

    “...this evening, when the light is perfect in the west workshop.”

    “I know the time. I'll be there, Master,” I say. He reaches out to touch my face but I step away and rush towards the overly bright courtyard where wooden sticks in the shape of rapiers crack together. He doesn't follow me. I'm glad. I don't want him to see my tears. I can't stand to be touched at that moment by him, the one I love the most in the world. I have to start to prepare myself for the hands of an artist, of a stranger. 

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