On a recent morning, Katrina Brown is filled with many hopes and fears as she drops her son off at Croyden.

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As she rolls over, her top drops off.

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Titania could not conceive of the way they were made, except as distillations of sadness and heartbreak and despair, since that was how she made her own poisons, shaking drops of terror out of a wren captured in her fist, or sucking with a silver straw at the tears of a dog.

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