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This was my shrine room and my studio. Since I gave myself fully over to the Goddess when I was fifteen, I had made do with tiny altars disguised as knickknacks on nightstands or the corner of my desk. In my mind, in my dreams of the house, there had been a room where I could close the door and close myself in with the Goddess and with my art. And that room was real, like the loft and the fireplace. It was a small room, a bedroom for child, or more likely children. Perhaps it had been a nursery. I hadn’t asked Miss Marian about my side of the house beyond the day-to-day necessities because of the way in which she had described the house and her family and her life to me. She had not been sentimental, even when we were painting new white crosses for her daughters’ graves. It seemed that she was delighted to share the fascination of the objects in her life, including her home, including the graves of her children, but not their meanings to her.

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