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The next morning, Stacy woke up with the memory of a vivid and strange
dream.
She had been fleeing across desolate moorland, a stitch in her side
and her breath laboured. Looking over her shoulder, she could see many
pursuers in the distance
behind her. They were carrying torches - the old-fashioned burning kind -
for dusk was
falling. They were still far behind, but she felt that the leaders
were slowly gaining on her. They were brandishing what might be clubs and
other
improvised weapons, though it was hard to be sure given the distance and
the dim light.
She couldn't make out details of their clothing, but she herself seemed to
be wearing
medieval attire - male clothes rather than female.
Shouts were carried to her on the following wind, mostly variations on "kill her" and "don't let her get away" (though the language was medieval French - not that she was aware of that at the time). She knew that if they caught her, killing her was precisely what they would do; there would be no question of a trial for whatever her crime was supposed to have been. Then the full moon began to rise ahead of her, seeming unnaturally large against the background of the distant horizon. Stacy's heart seemed to start to pound even more than it had already been doing from the exertion of her flight.
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8/26/2000 11:17:00 AM
Extending Enabled
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