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t choice was doumbec,
but the throbbing rhythms only made things worse. Finally, he was
forced to choose the spare ornamentation of Bach, and hummed it
softly to himself as he worked.
In the middle of the Partita No. 3, the quiet alarm broke in, its
gentle beep sounding like a klaxon to him. He looked up at the
chrono on the wall over the entrance. 18:45.
In minutes, the smock was thrown off and he was out the door, on his
way to his quarters. The collar was in a drawer; he had not worn it
since the last lesson. He remembered seeing it there each time he
opened this drawer, picking it up, holding it -- but never wearing
it. He couldn't bring himself to put it on.
He entered his quarters, opened the drawer. The collar lay there,
the chain slightly tarnished, the soft kid leather slightly stiff.
With trembling fingers, he picked it up.
A faint scent of jasmine still clung to it -- or was he imagining
that? His eyes went to the chrono near his bed. 18:48. He
considered just heading straight for Bay 1, but caught a reflection
of himself in the mirror over his dresser that stopped him. Smiling
slightly, he ran his hand over his uniform.
No. His lips curled wryly as he remembered. He fingered the
synthetic fabric, black and brilliant royal blue. Quartermaster
would want to know why he n
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