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25 Ventriloquist on the Moor The ladder in his throat rungless, greased. His voices— unformed whimpers now— twitch in his ears. He wanders in a fog that stinks with woundwort and wonders how long his body will last when he lies down in the peat. Will he decay once for each of them or become bones in days— organs proving empty but for the voices’ carrion inside his lungs? His lips splinter. His chest clatters. His heart is not his own. ...

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