BLOODLINE
he says.
"I know," I say.
He hands the knife back to me, handle first. "Keep it," he says. "Next time, aim for the throat."
Outside, the moon is rising—two days from full, heavy and pregnant with light. But in the portrait room, surrounded by the faces of women who had not been allowed to choose, I feel something shift. The bloodline is not a curse, I realize. It is a question. And for the first time, I am ready to answer it on my own terms.
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