Not caring what anyone thought, Min climbed onto the bed and lay so she could tuck Rand's head under her chin and wrap her arms around him. Min turned to ice inside. A large jute sack lay near one outstretched hand. It's the middle of the night.
Her face must not have shared her confidence. A tiny stab of guilt made her shift her seat on the coverlet. They have the Bowl of the Winds. Not the Swan, Alwhin, you blind fool! she hissed, half under her breath, though her accent made understanding difficult.
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