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Felicity put down the brush and took a quick look at herself in the mirror. She was a slight girl, with dark red hair that fell to her shoulders. In her school’s uniform she showed the beginnings of a figure, but dressed as she was today, in jeans and a University of Rhode Island sweatshirt, no one could see that. Satisfied with her appearance, she went down the stairs to breakfast.

Good morning,” her mother’s voice greeted her as she came into the kitchen. The Stockwell home was an old brownstone in the centre of the city.

The kitchen was small, with a table at one end looking out at the equally small backyard. Felicity remembered that as a small girl, she longed for a home outside the city with a big lawn. But this house was close to her father’s work and there was a park nearby. As Felicity had grown older, she had come to appreciate living in the city.

There are some waffles for you on the table,” her mother said, without turning from the ageing waffle iron that always burned the first two waffle attempts . “And I set out the real maple syrup because it’s your birthday. There are some cards on the table for you, too.”

Her mother turned from the waffle iron. Anne Stockwell was a handsome woman of 40 with dark red hair the same colour as her daughter’s. She was the music teacher at Felicity’s school, St. Andrew’s.

Oh, and Roger Williams came by this morning and brought you this,” she said, handing Felicity a small box and a card in a light-blue envelope.

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