Finnikin met her eyes, wanting desperately to make sense of her request. Why Pietrodore? But in a moment the realization hit, and he smiled in wonder. “It’s not chance, Trevanion,” he said, kicking the golden carpet of leaves at his feet. He ran back toward her, sliding part of the way until he could grab her by the waist and swing her around. “You are a goddess, Evanjalin of the Monts.
-Melina Marchetta
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