31 March 2018

Càisg Shona – Happy Easter

Càisg Shona – Happy Easter

may blessing bring come to you and your family
 this holiday weekend.

Also Happy April Fool's Day

someone posted this was a bad Easter Bunny
from 1300s

More likely it was one of the three main masks worn at the Betlaine ceremony, and the man being beheaded in the Willing King-God Sacrifice being killed in the May Day Rituals.

28 March 2018

Remembering Dawn on the anniversary of her birthday....

late author Dawn Thompson


Redemption excerpt

(Book Four of the Dragons of Challon™)

by Deborah Macgillivray

 Coming from Prairie  Rose Publications  September 2018

They call him Redemption

A jest, because Redam Maignart is a man to be feared. He sits at Edward Plantagenet’s left hand, and does his king’s bidding―an assassin who kills without blinking an eye. His heart had died on that long ago night when his family had been slaughtered, and nothing has touched it since. He is sent northward on a mission―to find and dispatch William Wallace, a commoner raising holy hell in the year 1297. What he never expects to discover is a witch with the power to heal his soul.

Gillian of the Flowers, the lady of Lochstorr

hoped her small holding on the edge of Glen Shane would go untroubled by this fearsome English king. That wish went unanswered. The aftermath of the war between Scotland and England saw a brutal knight come to claim her holding…and her. She must escape, or knows he will kill her. In her darkest hour her wounded spirit calls out for a dark champion to save her.

When Redam discovers Gillian, beaten and half-dead by a loch, he’s filled with rage at her treatment. Yet, little did this stone-hard man know this woman held the key to redeeming his tortured soul. War stalks the Highlands, and evil men take advantage of these times. Redam knows he must protect Gillian, for he knows in saving her, he is saving himself.
As their passion grows, so does the terror that wishes to destroy them both.


Scotland, 1297

“My lady,” her maidservant, Cadha, had inquired through the kerchief held to her nose, “Are you unwell?”

Gillian hesitated in answering. Something was different and she was at a loss to say precisely what. She had experienced the sensation before. The kenning. When the air seemed stifling and her vision held a faint rippling of colors at the edge, those sensations presaged that something very vital was about to happen. Oft, she experienced these things when she was dosing for a well; the closer she got to locating the hidden source of water, the stronger the undulating swirl of reds, greens and yellows grew until her vision drew down to a narrow range.

Only she wasn’t dousing for water, but simply staring at the Douglas pennon, while she waited for her soldiery to fetch their mounts. Was it something about the standard that drew the focus of this extra sense, an ability which touched the women of the Ogilvie line? All through the Highlands had heard about the brash, handsome Douglas lord who had carried off his English bride. Such tales of daring, love and romance! Now, his mighty banner seemed so sad hanging there, treated with such disrespect.

“My lady, the captain brings forth your mount.” Cadha reached out and touched Gillian’s sleeve. “Put the cloth to your nose. It helps. Just take slow shallow breaths. We will soon be out of this…this…”
There were no words created to describe this hell. It sickened her. Not just the vile remnants of months old battle, but the fact people perpetrated these atrocities upon their fellow man. Death was bad enough, a waste of life that served little purpose she could see. People killed to survive. A fact of this world she had long ago accepted. But this was not for survival. It was simply the will of an English king—and for what? To have a bigger kingdom? There was no pride or honor in what was done to the Scots that had merely defended their homes, their families. Thousands of men, women and children—children—had perished here, and no amount of quicklime could wash away the crime, the sin of Berwick.

“There is no name for what this place now is, Cadha,” Gillian replied. “‘Tis an offense methinks Edward Longshanks shall yet live to regret.”

Walking to the mounting block, Gillian allowed her captain of the guard to aid her in getting upon her Bay palfrey. She could have chosen to ride in the cart with Cadha, but she preferred sitting on the back on a horse to having her insides bounced around. Hooking her leg around the horn of the sidesaddle, she nodded that she was ready to set out.

Two outriders were followed by four knights, riding before her, and then the cart with the baggage and Cadha trailed just behind. Eight paid Irish hobelars would bring up the rear. In ordinary times, they could travel safe enough with this small of a force. Only, there were bands of brigands on the roads since the spring. Many serfs refused to go home to their masters after the battle of Dunbar. Instead, they hid out in the lesser traveled areas, causing problems for the English forces, and seeing many areas riven with violence. Some brigands were not so principled and attacked Scots as well. Still, she had not dared take any more defenders away from Lochstorr. She needed a strong presence there to hold in her absence.

As they had ridden along the charred remains of the area surrounding the Red Hall, she purposely kept her eyes on the back of her sergeant. There served little purpose in filling her head with the gruesome specter arrayed on Edward’s command. Shallow breaths failed to help, so she was forced to bring the kerchief to her nose. The scent saturating the cloth was mugwort. Auld Bessa spake that the wort was a good protection for a traveler, would shield them against wild beasts, fatigue and poisons. Well, the air was poisoned, so she supposed Cadha had chosen well.

When her party neared the edge of the dead town, suddenly, someone began yelling―a rider coming toward them―followed by more chevaliers and lancers. Make way! Make way, I say!”

Her troop moved to the side of the roadway as it was clear the force, traveling fast, was not about to slow or give way. Two bannerets with small flags flying were behind the rider calling out, then a rider holding a large pennon.

Fascinated, Gillian watched the large flag rippling as the riders drew closer, the black field rather fitting in this town of death. There were two splashes of brilliant color—scarlet and gold―but she could not tell what the crest was. Her vision darkened as the kenning had slammed into her, the vibration thrumming through her body to where she felt faintly sick. Never had the gift been this strong. She swallowed hard against the sensations buffeting her; even so, she could not tell what was causing the disturbance. The banner? She gawked as it drew closer, until it was nearly alongside of her. Then, the coat of arms became plain to her. Two dragons rampant, facing each other as if locked in a mighty battle.

She leaned toward the knight riding beside her and asked, “Whose device is on that banner?”
The man swallowed hard, grimacing from the smell, before answering. “’Tis new to me, my lady. The red dragon on black is the device of the king’s left hand, but that one with a golden dragon…well, I am not sure. Edward’s new standard he flies before towns is a dragon gold. I do not think anyone would dare to use it, so this must be someone of great import.”

Choking on the smell, she raised the scented kerchief to her nose, and breathed in the scent desperately.

Behind the banner came two columns. At the fore were two knights on black steeds. No, that was not right. One was a dark gray, so dark that it was nearly black, reminding her of mouse’s fur. Beautiful, majestic animals, riding hard. The horsemen were in black mail and plate. The one on the far side wore a surcoat of deepest green, but she could barely take note of his features since her eyes had remained locked onto the rider closest. He was dressed in a black surcoat, with a red dragon on his chest. He wore no helm, no coif, so his wavy black hair was moved by the breeze. Obviously, he was one of Edward’s Norman knights, yet his locks were not cut in the Norman style.

For an instant, his head turned, his eyes only vaguely running over the small Scottish party decamping the town. The world held its breath. Her heart pounded in her ears, beating out a tattoo, as her eyes met his. Dark eyes, yet from the distance she could not tell their shade. A breathless magic spun around them making it seem as if they were the only two people in the whole town.

The spell shattered as he put spurs to his steel gray charger and moved on.----

Gillian could almost smell the scent of mugwort, as she lay trembling in Redam’s embrace. The two dragons on a field of black. The images she had seen in the bowl when she had asked Annis for answers. Could that be? That she had seen this knight on that hot August morn? The irony struck her. If it had been Redam under the pennon of the double dragons, then he would little remember her.
She had held the scented kerchief to her face as he’d ridden past.

Could life have been that strange? That cruel?

Gillian felt sick.

Deborah Macgillivray
“Dragons of Challon” series “Sisters of Colford Hall” series“Knights of Hellborne” series

26 March 2018

Upcoming release tentative release dates for Dragons of Challon series

One Snowy Knight
The new version of One Snowy Knight is in production now.  Like A Restless Knight and Ravenhawke, this version is my original saga which clocks in about 40,000 words more than Kensington mass market version.

Look for it out in early July 2018

a very special to Jon Paul, of Jon Paul Studios for allowing me the use of the cover for One Snowy Knight.  

Dragons of Challon, Book Four

has now been slotted for sometimes in August 2021

Prairie Rose Publications

23 March 2018

Tears for the passing of a truly wonderful lady

The loss of a dear friend.  She was fiercely independent, but that independence was surpassed by her love of life and caring for her friends.

She will be deeply missed

March 15, 2018

This was Allie's last Christmas present to me.  Tonight
I was struck by how much it looks like her when she was very young

21 March 2018

The art of Love through the ages

How vastly courting rituals have changed through the ages. . .

Courting in the Middle Ages was very different for a lady of noble birth than for the women of today.  Social mores that governed how a couple met, the manner in which they formed an engagement and later wed, dictated much of her life, and often with small or no input of her desires and choices.  For the reader not well versed in a particular period, it’s important to mentally step back and not to judge actions and thoughts of characters of periods past by today’s standards.  Centuries ago, females were often wed at twelve years of age, something that would be considered child abuse by today’s rules.  At age twenty-five she was an “old maid” and considered beyond the age of marrying.  You have to remember people didn't live as long.  When we think of “old” we are considering people in their sixties and seventies.  In ancient times, people for the most part were lucky to make it to age forty, thus a woman in her twenties was already an older woman halfway through her lifetime.

 At that age perspectives shift, you see a change every couple of generations in the mating rituals.  Today, many couples openly live together for years before taking the steps to marriage vows.  Just a few generations past, this would have been scandalous, taboo.  When Ingrid Bergman had an affair with Italian director Roberto Rossellini in the 1950s, while both were married to other people, and later gave birth to his son, it caused such a scandal that she was denounced on the floor of the United States Senate.  Ed Sullivan even refused to have her on his show!  When she left her husband and daughter, going to live in Italy with Rossellini, she was barred from entering the US to act and had to remain in Europe for a number of years.  Yet, such behavior is commonplace now and barely raises an eyebrow.  Look at the long romance of Kurt Russell and Goldie Hawn.  He was married to Season Hubley when he began his affair with Hawn.  They have now lived together for decades, yet never married.  No one gives it a second thought.

In the 1950s, women stayed home to raise their families.  A wife going to work outside the house was a slur against her husband.  What’s wrong, can he not support her?  At the turn of the previous century, women seldom went out to live on their own.  They remained with their families until they were properly courted and wed, going from father’s to husband’s control without ever knowing how to live life on her own.  The further you go back into history, the tighter control you see of women, what they could and couldn't do.  Few could own property.  They had no control over money they might inherit, and were often considered nothing more than property of their husband.  In the 19th century, women didn't go out for dates.  In fact, if she danced with the same man more than twice at a ball of the ton, society would expect him to offer for her hand in marriage the next morning, or she would be ruined!

Shed all your knowledge of how women live today, and take that step back to consider obstacles women faced in finding a husband in Medieval times.   The average commoner rarely traveled outside his own village.  They were born, lived and died, literally tied to the land, chained there because they were mere vassals of the local lord.  Consequently, a woman of low birth was forced to find a mate amongst the slim pickings of local lads, or possibly a cousin not too far away.  It’s estimated they rarely traveled farther than the nearest village, even fewer went over fifty miles away.  Women of higher birth were not quite as limited.  They generally were sent to other castles or keeps at a young age to be fostered, much in the same manner sons were sent away to serve as pages and squires.  Therefore, they did have the opportunity to meet young men outside their own fiefdom.  Such a move was intentional, this “farming out” of daughters at young ages.  They gained strength in facing a new situation, new people, and saw how others thought and lived.  More importantly, the exchange of children was a forging of bonds between different lords.  If she were of some import, she might even travel to court, widening her circle of acquaintances even more.  Still, there was little chance of dating as we might consider it.  Young women served under the tutelage of the lady of the manor.  She spent a lot of time learning courtly ways and to manage the household, possibly she might even be instructed in the healing arts.  A young woman would spend time sewing, spinning and weaving ― an endless chore, because people had to have clothing, and everything from sheering the sheep, carding the wool and spinning it had to be done by hand.

Even if she were lucky enough to catch the eye of a handsome young squire, attachments wouldn't have been encouraged.  A daughter was not just a child to be reared, she was an asset.  Fathers that didn't have sons would use his daughters to make alliances.  Lord’s with sons saw the chance of obtaining a large dowry to bolster his standing.  The young girl would have little say in if she wanted to marry a man.  These marriage contracts were set up, signed and sealed when she was but a child.  Love, though much sung about by troubadours, rarely came into play in the making of a match during this period.  Sometimes, fathers had little say in the matter, too.  If the liege lord or king decided to marry off a daughter to a knight or another lord for a reward, there was no recourse.  Their liege lord’s decision on such matters was final.

If on the rare occasion, a young woman might fall for a young man, the obstacles preventing them from getting to know each other were endless.  In a castle, people were always about.  Privacy was scarce as those proverbial hen’s teeth.  There were no places to go for walks, no parks, and strolling outside the castle curtain was dangerous.  The first time a couple had the time to truly come to know each other was after they were married.

So the next time you read a historical romance don’t be too quick to judge people of the past and how they lived by your own life experiences.

© Deborah Macgillivray
All Rights Reserved

Author of Internationally Published series
Dragons of Challon 


17 March 2018

Happy St. Patrick's Day!!

Lá Fhéile Pádraig Shona

Leprechauns, caisleáin, dea-ádh agus gáire.
Labhlaí, aisling agus grá riamh i ndiaidh.
Fáiltíonn míle nuair a thagann duine ar bith ...
Sin an Ghaeilge duit!

Leprechauns, castles, good luck and laughter.
Lullabies, dreams and love ever after.
A thousand welcomes when anyone comes...
That's the Irish for You!

12 March 2018

Arrow to the Heart - Excerpt #2 from One Winter Knight Anthology

 The small girls were pushing at the thighs of Aithinne’s brothers, and they in turn were driving the once more blindfolded lady, this time in their direction.  Suddenly, Hugh seemed to trip on his feet and fall hard into the back of Aithinne, who in turn toppled into Damian and Fletcher.  They caught her before any harm was done.  Everyone howled and clapped with glee at the madcap amusement.  Damian righted his wife to where she was sitting upon his lap.

She pushed the tied cloth up to smile at Fletcher.  “Well, well...the machinations of Lady Fate decrees––with a wee push from a brother mine––that you are to be the King of Holly.  Very fitting, I must say.”

“Nay, look elsewhere, my lady,” Fletcher laughed uneasy.  What sort of tricks were the trins playing now?  He glanced to Damian to assess his reaction to this turn.

A toe-headed little girl danced to Aithinne and handed her a crown made of holly and red berries and branches fashioned to appear like antlers.  “You have no choice.  The battle between the Oak King and the King of Holly is an ancient one, going back to the dawn of time.  The Oak Lord battles to keep the night at bay––”

Fletcher was growing annoyed.  “Aye, I know the lore.  The Oak Lord banishes the coming night to make sure the sun returns at Springtide.  All children have heard these ancient tales.”  He be damned if he’d go through with this farce, ancient customs could go to the devil.  ‘Twas bad enough he was forced to stand aside and watch Geljon with the man she would soon wed, but to be compelled to play out that loss before all in this mock contest was too much to expect of him.  “Find someone else to mime your mummery.”

Aithinne gave him a patient smile.  “To you they are tales.  To my people they are tradition.  If we do not banish the night this eve, the long night of the Winter Solstice, then we shall face a dark winter season that will be long and harsh.  Please?” 

Lewis held out the staff to him.  “I always thought it odd, that the Holly Lord was the one to be banished.  His leaves never die; they are forevermore green, showing that life that hope never dies.  The Oak fights long, holding onto their leaves, but come time they wither and die.  Also, holly is a plant so treasured this time of year.  But the Auld Ones never asked me what I thought of this battle.  Come, Fletcher, you be one of the best at the quarterstaff.  Do the Holly King justice.  Damian mimed him last year, and his heart was not in it.  We had a bad winter because of it.  Our people would appreciate a hero to help drive the gloom and cold away.”

Fletcher wanted to push the staff aside, but everyone in the room began chanting words of encouragement.  All eyes were upon him, and for more reason that some bit of ancient lore.  David Leslie and he were to fight, even if a mock battle.  His eyes sought out Geljon once more.  She was looking at him, like she always did, though concern flickered in the grey depths.  

Leslie was already standing, an arrogant grin on his face.  “Come, Sasunnach, dunna disappoint all here.”  He spread his grip on the staff and held it out at chest level.  “Unless . . .you be affeared to fight a braw Scot?”

Fletcher wanted to wipe that condescending smile off the man’s face.  He snatched the quarterstaff from Lewis’ grip.  Rolling the long pole in his hands, he followed Aithinne to the center of the Great Hall.
Everyone gathered around the edges of the great room, children sitting on the floor, whilst their elders pulled the long benches into a better position, or stood at the back, hoping for a better view of the coming display.  Excitement gleamed upon their faces.

Aithinne began, “The Auld Ones witnessed a great rivalry since the light first kissed the earth.  The battle of two great kings.  One dark and one light.  Twice a year they would come to do battle for the lands.  They would fight heroically.  The Holly King, the dark one would rule the Wintertide and set the sun to dimming.  As the nights grew longer, so did his strength, his control of this world.  The Oak King held reign over summer and was blessed with the power of the waxing light.  Their biggest battle would come at Yule, and a mighty struggle it was.  The Oak King’s powers are at their weakest, whilst the Holly King’s strength and wield were at pinnacle.  If the Oak King fails to banish the Holly King, then he would rule the country in a swirl of snow storms, preventing Springtide’s return.  Through his valiant effort the Oak King must find the power to drive the Holly King away, so he may woo the Maid of Spring.”

          As Fletcher stood on one side of Aithinne, staring unblinkingly at David Leslie on the other, he felt a queer itch between his shoulder blades.  He was to play the Holly King––the dark lord.  And perfectly cast, Leslie was the fair lord.  And naturally, his thoughts returned to the maid he would win––Geljon.  An ancient tradition, yet it felt as if it was being played out for real in this game of mime.  Was this design by man or the whims of ancient gods?

  By the Saints, the mead’s influence was hitting him harder, causing his vision to swim.  Everything was too hot, and he was having a hard time drawing breath.  There were too many people, and all staring at the two men in their circle.  Aithinne was talking, going on about the meaning of the rite.  Her words fell upon his ears like a waterfall. 

He could only see Geljon.  She had moved to the center of one bench, and sat clutching her hands together.  Between them was a small sprig of holly.  Did that hold significance?

“What ho, Sasunnach?  Say that we seem to fit these kings of the land who must wage battle?”  Leslie rocked the long pole back and forth between his hands.

Aithinne gave a nervous laugh.  “’Tis only a mock battle, my lords.  We know the outcome.  The Oak Lord must win to bring the sun back to the lands.”

Leslie flashed a grin of innocence.  “Naturally, my lady.  ‘Tis evident to all the Scottish oak must prevail over the English holly.”

Fletcher took a breath, striving to regain control.  Lewis move past him, going to take a seat next to Geljon.  He blocked the lad’s path.  “Knave, did you put something in the mead?”  Catching him by the arm, he spoke lowly so only the two of them could hear.”

“Me?  Nay.  ‘Twas Lewis who took you the drink.  I am Deward.  ‘Tis the Picts’ heather mead.  ’Tis spake it makes a warrior stronger, invincible.  The properties are fabled.  ’Tis only given to those who are special.”

Fletcher opened his mouth to ask more, but suddenly, Leslie’s staff came slashing from out of nowhere, cracking against Fletcher’s with a noise so loud that everyone in the room jumped.  Since his grip was loose about the long rod, the vibration nearly caused him to drop the heavy wooden quarterstaff and lose his balance.  Leslie lost no time in delivering yet another blow that pushed Fletcher backward, nearly knocking Deward over as well.

“So, this is the best man with a quarterstaff?  The English must like to spend their time in bed making love, rather than on the training field,” Leslie taunted.  “It does seem the Oak King is stronger this Turn of the Wheel.  The battle mayhap shall be a short one, eh, and we can forward look to an early spring.”

Fletcher kept backing up, but he now had a better hold on the heavy pole, so the vibrations were not traveling up his arms and rattling his muscles to the point of numbness.  The fifth swing saw him blocking Leslie firmly, which brought surprise to the pale hazel eyes.  Only, the man countered and then spun in a full circle, his plaide flying about him, to catch Fletcher with a swat to the seat of his pants.

When the crowd laughed, the arrogant Scotsman actually turned and took a bow.  Smug and full of élan, Leslie hopped upon the end of the table and swung around on his hips to where he could sit just above Geljon.  His tartan rose to where his lower thigh was fleetingly exposed.  “Ah, fair Maid of Spring, shall you be the bride of the Oak King and rid this land of English holly?” 

The crowd roared with more laughter, the scores of faces taking on a distorted bent in Fletcher’s eyes.  He kept blinking, trying to hold onto his focus.  This whole affair was quickly becoming a nightmare.  He could not seem to find the concentration to attack.  He watched Leslie pick up Geljon’s hand and place a kiss to the back of it.  She snatched it away.  Fletcher’s vision filled with red.  A boiling anger reared its head as he watched the strutting peacock, stand up on the bench, and then step higher onto the table, walking its length.

“Come, Sasunnach, you are supposed to put on a show for all.”  Leslie spread his arms to encompass the room and flashed a smile at a comely wench, standing off to the side.  Giving a yell, he jumped over the heads of the seated children to land before Fletcher.

Only this time, Fletcher met the Scotsman’s swing with a full force of his own.  Clearly, the move surprised the haughty Tanist.

“What ho?”  He jested, yet the light shifted in those pale eyes, nearly the same shade as his auburn hair.  “The Sasunnach tailed-dog has teeth.”

“Aye, I do and I plan on keeping them.  The same might not be said about you at the end of this mock battle.”  Fletcher, still lightheaded, felt his warrior’s instincts taking over.  He quickly fell into the rhythm of attacks, recoil to block a counterattack, and before Leslie could reposition, attack again, harder, quicker.  Overconfidence was getting the better of the man, replaced by anger as his moves, now less assured, were done in haste and in a determination to get in harder blows. 

The spark of cocksureness faded as it became clearer that Fletcher was the stronger of the two men.  He was also faster and more agile.  He had a feeling Leslie had not come up against such a skilled fighter before.  The man was strong enough.  Perhaps as the Tanist, the heir to the chiefship of the clan, people gave him an easier path in life, and the young men did not press or challenge him.

“I admit you can handle the quarterstaff well–– especial for a bloody Sasunnach––but it shall be a good wedding gift for Geljon to see you defeated.  I am the golden king.  You are the dark one.  I shall banish you and take the Spring Maid this night.  A wedding is made in the Highlands when two people speak they are husband and wife.  Why not turn this festive night into a wedding celebration?” 

 Leslie was goading him.  Fletcher knew this, but it was damn hard not to shove the metal tipped pole down his arrogant throat.  There simply was no stopping images of Geljon beneath this naked Scotsman, and the visions were a hell.  Geljon should be taken in gentleness and love, not by this pompous swine.  She deserved awe, respect, and a passion born of the fire of devotion.  Fletcher knew he may be bastard born, but he was an honorable man.  He had family connections, though he had never called upon that bond before.  Mayhap the time was now.  Leslie might offer her many material advantages, but there was one thing he could give Geljon that the Tanist could not––he loved her.

As these vague notions rose in his mind, possibilities he had not considered before, his swings with the quarterstaff grew more assured.  Aye, mayhap Clan Leslie had a lot to offer the smaller sept of Seacrests.  But they were a branch of Clan Ogilvie, why Geljon’s father had sent her to stay with Aithinne.  Well, if the man was terrified of the English controlling the lands, why not an alliance with the mighty Dragons of Challon, already wed to Ogilvie heiresses?  What better way to see the old man assured his daughter would be protected, and see his clan lands stay secure?

If you truly love the girl, then mayhap we can figure something out.  Fletcher knew Geljon wanted him; it was the matter of convincing her father.  Not a simple trick, but one he could master.  He would do anything to win her hand.  With the invincible spirt of the heather mead coursing through him, and the renewed acceptance he might be able to stop this coming marriage, he brought the staff down with such might that it shattered Leslie’s weapon and sent him sprawling backwards, and into the group of people near the fire.  Everyone gasped and scrambled.

The Tanist was shocked, but that emotion quickly morphed into rage, a deep glowing resentment that saw from this day forward they would be mortal enemies.  So be it.  Fletcher tossed the quarterstaff down at the feet of Leslie and gave him a crooked smile.

A gasped silence lingered in the Great Hall as his words rang out.  “It seems the Oak King was not strong enough to defeat the Holly King this season.  Pity that.”

Fletcher turned, seeking to find Geljon.  He wanted to go to her and tell her of his plans.  Just as he spotted her standing with Aithinne, there were shouts behind him.  He spun around in time to see Leslie had picked up the other staff and had made a wide swing toward the back of his head.  A killing blow. . .

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