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She pushed the book she'd been drawing in over; inside were plenty of studies. Many were of Caliban goofing around; there were a couple of Kujoh and Amallia, and fainter letters something else, largely in Latin and some in what appeared to be middle-German, noodling in between them all, scribbled like a hasty memory with far less purpose in the strokes. More seemed to be sketches to stay sharp; landscapes, flattened and pressed into two dimensions, the scenery of the city interpreted through the lens of a little theatrical set. Some scribbles only barely covered some ideas, here. She'd ran her fingers gently, absently over the own marks she'd made even as her focus seemed entirely on Effie. Soon, too, Effie's book got the same tactile treatment. And unfortunately, she didn't really seem wholly aware she was doing it. |