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9

The door into the back room was open, showing the bulky angular frame of a printing press. Bent over it, his back turned to me, was Jamie. 

“Is that you, Geordie?” he asked, not turning around. He was dressed in shirt and breeches, and had a small tool of some kind in his hand, with which he was doing something to the innards of the press. “Took ye long enough. Did ye get the—” 

“It isn’t Geordie,” I said. My voice was higher than usual. “It’s me,” I said. “Claire.”   ~ Voyager