He touched the silver star pin very lightly, with the tip of one finger, and she had to control herself in order to not flinch away from him. His hands were long-fingered, almost delicate - they looked more like the hands of a musician than those of a murderer.
"Magic," he said the word like a prayer.
"Magic." A prayer. How funny. To Lucky, it was - and always had been - a curse.
I feel cold and tired and generally unpleasant today.
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