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Will said nothing in response to Rowan’s query. Instead, he held up his little knife, a half-pared potato skewered on the end of it. He cocked his head toward Cook, who seemed to be muttering over her frying pan.
Come sit by me he mouthed at Rowan, sliding a chair out from under the table with his foot. ‘Something’s put a wasp under the old gal’s petticoats today,’ he whispered, leaning in close. ‘You have any idea what?’
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