Monthly Archives: July 2020

In My Attic Tour


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Magical Misfits Mystery, Book 1
(Cozy) Mystery
Date Published: 1 July 2020
Publisher: Literary Wanderlust, Denver, Colorado
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Myrtle’s aunt is dead—murdered—and she has inherited the Witch’s Retreat, a Bed and Breakfast in the idyllic village of Avebury. Filled with outrageous characters, the old house hides a mystery under its eaves. Everybody is a suspect: Alan, the blue-eyed police constable; Chris, the proverbial dark and handsome stranger; Myrtle’s curvy cousin Daisy; and even Tiddles, the flatulent cat. As Myrtle takes on the mantle of amateur sleuth, she bumbles along in search of answers, digging deeper and deeper among the tangled roots of her family’s history. The secrets she uncovers are more shocking than death: a hidden magical relic, a coven of amateur witches eager to gather her into the fold, and modern witch hunters on the prowl.
In My Attic tablet





y aunt lay dead and I was lost in her life. It came complete with auntie’s beloved bed and breakfast fully booked and brimming with guests. Too bad, since I slung a mean tea bag but was a hopeless cook. Instead, I was a murderess. Well, okay, call it guilty of failing to render assistance, but it felt worse. 

Yesterday, Aunt Eve had rung me, panic vibrating in her voice. 

“Myrtle, I need your help. This is getting out of hand.” 

“What is? Listen, I’m so sorry, but there’s a faculty meeting in two minutes and—” 

“I can’t do this on my own.” 


“Not for this. I need you. I won’t let him win.” The last bit came out as a wail and triggered my monumental mistake. Aunt Eve was the most rational person on Earth, though she had her wild moments. I decided this was one of them, made soothing noises and promised to ring back. 

I never made that call. 

Now, on a deceptively pleasant Tuesday afternoon, I found myself standing in the kitchen of my aunt’s bed and breakfast, caught in a haze of loss and anguish, assaulted by the lingering aromas of fry-ups gone by. To make matters worse, the Witch’s Retreat was also overrun by the police in their size elevens. 

Bang on cue, a copper tramped in from the corridor and pushed his way through the saloon-style swing doors, his helmet under his arm. 

He beamed at me. “Hi there, any chance of a cuppa?” 

Such a simple request. Aunt Eve would have had the kettle boiling in no time. Why was I still standing there, the strap of my purse cutting into my shoulder, the industrial-sized fridge humming away

in indifference? 

“Give me a moment.” I dumped my suitcase onto terracotta tiles as immaculate as the cupboards with their glossy eggshell finish. 

Illuminated by ceiling spots so bright they out-dazzled the watery April sunlight, the doors of the cabinets reflected my haggard face, colorless and distorted as if I were a specter haunting auntie’s world. 

Everything looked like it did in November when I visited this place for the last, and first, time. My scruples had nothing to do with the old house. The renovations did the Georgian elephant proud. The village it stood in was a different matter. 

Don’t be such a Moaning Myrtle,  my inner voice scolded. 

True, this mawkishness was not my style. I heaved a shuddering breath and searched my surroundings. In a corner, close to the steel double sink, I spotted a toaster and the kettle. Tea bags were nowhere in sight, but then the blasted tears were once more blurring my vision. I searched my pockets for a tissue, wiped my eyes and blew my nose. All the time, my uniformed companion was tactful enough not to comment. 

Trying to calm my breathing, I focused on the flowerpots lining the windowsill from the back entrance to the sink, their occupants the only sign something was amiss and must have been for a while. Aunt Eve took good care of her green boarders. These plants, primulas from what I could make out, were as shriveled and dried as last autumn’s leaves. 

Fabric rubbing on fabric reminded me of the young police officer still waiting, his helmet now parked on the quartz countertop. His eyes narrowed and he cleared his throat. “Uh, I’m sorry. You’re Mrs. 

Coldron’s older daughter, correct? Or would that be niece?” 

The bloke was as well informed as he was nosy. “Take your pick,” I said. 

“Ah. Put my foot right in it, then. Thought you might be another helper. My apologies. The ladies who do the cooking are ever so good with the drinks and sandwiches.” 

Had this place turned into a police canteen? 

“You seem to be familiar with the arrangements, officer.” 

Policeman Plod snapped his heels together in a mock salute and bowed. “Constable Alan Hunter, at your service. Actually, I’m one of

the houseguests. Just transferred to Swindon. I’m still looking for a flat, so I booked a room here for the time being. It’s a great place.” 

His gaze slipped aside. “Well, it was.” 

The bloke was easy on the eyes in his natty uniform, and his voice sounded genuinely contrite and well educated, so I forgave him. 

When he spoke again, he addressed his helmet rather than me. 

“I’m sorry about…what happened. You must be in shock.” 

Polite despite the thing with the helmet, “shock” was not the word I would have used. One moment all I had to worry about was a mountain of essays for English Lit and A-grade German that needed correcting, wondering what the girls might be commenting on. It didn’t sound at all like the set novels. Moments later, the headmistress had called me in, the lines in her sourpuss’s face distorted by what I only afterward identified as concern. She had passed me the phone and my world went black. 

“I’m afraid Mrs. Coldron met with a fatal accident,” the female voice on the other end of the line said. “In fact, we are treating this as a suspicious death. Can you come?” 

I packed my case in a daze and spent a tortured hour in the teachers’ wing, the headmistress having stopped me from belting up the motorway to Avebury. Instead, a colleague was to drive me in my car and return by train. The headmistress had been surprisingly compassionate; she granted me a week’s leave and had given me tea and a pat on the back before I set out. I understood this to mean the job that meant so much to me—despite the crappy essays—might still be waiting once I escaped from this nightmare. 

Auntie was my anchor, the one person who had always been there for me. She took me in when my parents died in an awful accident. 

Now I was grieving for her. 

My vision wobbled, and I sagged onto the rubber gymnastic ball auntie used instead of a kitchen chair. She insisted it did wonders for her spine and, whenever excited, bounced up and down on it like a toddler. Tears burned the back of my throat. 

No more bouncing. 

“You all right?” The copper’s voice dragged me back to the present. 

“Need some tea?” That was the UK for you. If in distress, stay calm and switch the kettle on. To tell the truth, I was thirsty. And hungry. 

My body craved sustenance, no matter what was going on and whether or not I liked it. 

“No, thank you. If you don’t mind, I’ll unpack in Number Seven and then…” 

No idea what to do then. My aunt was gone. Neither tea nor tears could bring her back. 

“Room Number Seven?” my police officer asked. “I thought it stood empty?” 

“It’s a spare, for emergencies,” I said. “It suits me.” 

That had been an odd thing to say, so I changed the subject. “Any suggestions where my cousin might be?” 

The constable shook his head. “The other Ms. Coldron suffered a breakdown when she heard the news, and the doctor gave her a sedative. She’s not in the house for sure.” 

Yup, that sounded like something Daisy would do. If she was not at my aunt’s place, she had most likely returned to her room in the pub where she tended the bar. Running a B&B was beyond her, coping with emergencies was beyond her—in a way, life was beyond her. 

As usual, it was all up to me. Not that she would appreciate my efforts. 

The ball hurt the small of my back, and I dragged myself up. “Can I talk to your superior? I still don’t understand what happened. Is he around somewhere?” 

Constable Hunter pushed the blond fringe from his face and twinkled his baby blues at a point somewhere over my right shoulder, which was an improvement over the helmet. 

“She,” he said. “The Sarge is upstairs with the SOCO. They should be done soon. I’ll tell her you’ve arrived.” He bounced a smile in my general direction and trooped off, the doors swinging shut behind him. 

Upstairs with the what? SOCO sounded ominous. And where upstairs? At least he didn’t mention pathologists. That was the last thing I needed now. What I needed was a porter, but even if the Witch’s Retreat was reasonably upmarket, it was no five-star hotel. 

With every step I took up treads carpeted in midnight blue, my battered suitcase got heavier. The big three-oh was recent, so I shouldn’t wheeze like this. Not that I did, usually. Back at the school, 

I bounced up and down stairs along with the girls. Here, I felt like I was climbing Mount Everest without a Sherpa. 

The first landing gave me an excuse to let go of my luggage and catch my breath. The silent corridor, with the pine doors mirroring each other on both sides, seemed to have slipped out of the time stream and I with it. No creaks, no groans, none of the noises old buildings tended to make. Even the guests remained mum. The result was an oddly appropriate otherworldly stillness. Aunt Eve’s brilliant mind had created this place. Here, her memory would live on. I could almost see her smiling, her tall figure striding along the passage. 

The phone at reception downstairs rang once, twice, then stopped. 

The spell was broken, and I loosened my death grip on the blond wood of the handrail. 

Something, probably a window, banged shut in the bedroom closest to the stairs, telling me the guests were awake after all. 

Perhaps the police had forced them to stay, and those innocent-looking doors hid a killer. 

Despite the plushy comfort offered by my favorite moss-green fleece jacket, a breeze sneaked along my spine. I was overwhelmed by an urge to scamper back down and keep running. Instead, I forced my unwilling legs to hoist myself and my luggage to the top floor. 

Whoever had so diligently vacuumed below had capitulated here. 

Footprints marred the dark blue of the carpet leading up the steps and into the upper corridor. 

The cold spread from my spine to my arms and drew goosebumps. 

I must be close to the crime scene. No sooner had the thought chilled my brain than I heard voices on the draft coming from the door at the end of the corridor. It led to a little landing with Aunt Eve’s room on the left and Daisy’s on the right. Both door and landing were half-hidden by a curtain featuring tiny mauve roses. Where the furnishings chosen by my parents had been all about angles and squares, Aunt Eve’s taste in interior decoration had leaned toward the floral, although she restrained herself to her private sphere. Her Wiccan spleen she had vented openly when she chose this village, of all places, for her business, naming the bed and breakfast “Witch’s Retreat” and hanging kitschy ceramic tiles displaying the room

number and a witch motif on the doors to the rooms. 

When I reached for the brass knob of Number Seven, featuring a teal-colored seven and a broomstick, I caught movement from the corner of my eye. A blue and white plastic band, unnecessarily labeled “POLICE,” barred access to the private part of the corridor. 

Had my aunt been killed in her bed? 

The carpet was even dirtier up here, showing the evidence of many a booted foot trudging to and from the makeshift but ominous barricade. For a moment, I considered searching for another place to stay. Unfortunately, apart from the Witch’s Retreat, Avebury offered little choice of accommodation. Next on the list was the Crystal Dawn, a quixotic New Age B&B down the road, a flat over the Magic Mushroom Café, available only during the summer months, and the few rooms at the Whacky Bramble, the pub where my cousin worked. 

If I had any home in this village, this would be it, crime scene or not. 

At least my aunt’s remains had been removed. The disembodied voice on this morning’s phone call had told me that much. 

When I entered Number Seven, the room welcomed me with the sweet perfume lilies release into the summer skies. Aunt Eve must have refreshed the potpourri before she died. Sobs tickled the back of my throat, but I slammed the door before they escaped. I dumped my luggage to fumble for a box of tissues on the nightstand of the nearest twin bed. 

Several sniffles later, I opened the suitcase. My packing had been hurried, and it showed. I could only hope the motley collection of charity rejects would yield some useful items of clothing. First things first: I needed a shower before confronting Constable Hunter’s sergeant. 

The moment I entered the bathroom, a knock sounded on the door to Number Seven. I cracked it open and beheld the same lantern-jawed face and roving gaze I had encountered earlier. 

“Sergeant Widdlethorpe can talk to you now if you like. She’s got to leave soon to attend the—eh, never mind. She’ll be back tomorrow. 

You can meet her then if you prefer.” He looked at my ear expectantly. We were making progress. 

I opened the door farther. “For how much longer will I have the pleasure of a police presence?” 

“You mean the on-site investigation? They’re almost done, don’t you worry.” 

The urge to talk to Constable Hunter’s superior became overwhelming, so I stepped into the corridor. “If your sergeant is ready, I wouldn’t mind having a word with her now.” 

Hunter nodded and led the way. Ever the helpful neighborhood bobby, he lifted the plastic strip for me to bend under and pushed the curtain aside so I could enter the landing. Fluorescent lamps threw their glare into what used to be such a cozy place, illuminating a figure in a white hooded suit next to an aluminum stepladder lying on its side. A young woman in street clothes leaned against the wall opposite the entrance, her neck craning toward a trapdoor in the ceiling. The tips of her shoes rested inches away from the chalked outline of a person with one arm reaching out, knees pulled up. 

My stomach lurched. 

Dried red rose petals lay strewn about the grisly smear, flattened and crumpled in places. They clustered in the part marking the splayed fingers. 

Bile rose in my throat. Those dark splotches half-hidden by the wilted and crushed petals could only be blood. 

My aunt had not died in her bed. 

She had plummeted from the attic. 

Killed by a bouquet of roses?

About the Author

LINA HANSEN has been a freelance travel journalist, teacher, bellydancer, postal clerk and science communication specialist stranded in the space sector. Numbed by factoid technical texts, she set out to write the stories she loves to read— cozy and romantic mysteries with a dollop of humour and a magical twist. After living and working in the UK, Lina, her husband, and their feline companion now share a home in the foothills of Castle Frankenstein. Lina is a double Watty Award Winner, Featured Author, and a Wattpad Star.
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Everwinter Teaser

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Chronicles of Naelyra Series, Book 1


Date Published: July 20th

Publisher: Digital Quill Publishing


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Typically, my daily routine is to get up, enjoy my hot chocolate, go to
work at my book store, go home, cook, clean, read a book and go to bed.

Simple. Relaxing. Calm.

But not all days go as planned.

Nope. Some days, you get up, have your morning hot chocolate, go to work,
head home only to be portalled to another world. I’ve done my best to
try to fit in. But while changing my clothes seemed reasonable, sharing a
bed with their king put an entirely new level of complication on things.

Try to sort out your day when that happens. Especially when nobody in your
new surroundings knows how you got there, let alone how to get you home.



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About the Author 

R.J. Lloyd started off as a romance writer under another pen name. However,
R.J. is the side of this award winning, best selling author that delves into
fantasy, sci-fi, supernatural, paranormal and all things action and spooky
that she loves so much.

A Detroit area based author, R.J. writes both novels and short stories,
always looking for the next interesting and slightly off kilter character to
follow on an adventure with.


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Dark Energy Blitz

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Dark Energy (Return to Becker Circle) is a stand-alone sequel to Becker Circle
Romantic Suspense; Adult/New Adult
 Date Published: June 10, 2020
Publisher:  Tirgearr Publishing

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Cybercrime doesn’t talk. It creeps in and destroys lives right under Gillian’s nose when a cryptojacking scheme lands her boss, Pinkie, in jail. Gillian had just started over with a new career, boyfriend, and confidence after escaping a vicious murder investigation that shattered her ability to trust. Then Pinkie’s arrest leaves her struggling to run his two bars while also unraveling the conspiracy.
Gillian will not let her mentor and friend go down for something he didn’t do. Neither will Jon, the most talented musician on the bar’s stage and the perfect boyfriend…until his good fortune sends her reeling. Gillian forces herself to trust the cops, people who hurt her, and known criminals. Will it be enough to free Pinkie and save her life?

Chapter Seven (portion)


When I approach the entrance, a man with a tablet computer approaches my car. “Your name, please? And why are you visiting the FBI today?”

They’re holding Pinkie at FBI headquarters? He doesn’t belong at a place like this. “Yes, hello. I’m Gillian Davis, here to visit with Pinkie—I mean Patrick Cunningham.”

He fingers through pages on his screen. “Your purpose for seeing Mr. Cunningham?”

I shift in the driver’s seat. “I manage a business he owns. I need to talk to him about work—I mean what to do while he’s away.”

“You’re not listed.” The arm holding the computer relaxes to his side.

“Officer Jeff Reeves called ahead. He’s with Dallas police.”

“I’ll make a quick call.” He walks away with a phone to his ear. In a few seconds, the gate opens, and he waves me through.

I let out the lungful of air I’ve been holding and drive. Hurdle one crossed. Three flags line the entrance like they’re waving me away, or maybe they’re inviting me in. Either way, I march through the heavy glass doors, step through the metal detector, follow the signs through the cold marble and stainless steel lobby to the visitor area, and wait.

A lawyer-like young woman in a gray suit taps on her laptop across the otherwise empty room. I feel underdressed. Footsteps echo toward us, and my heart beats as fast as her fingers type. It’s a man in a dark blue suit, his eyes on me.

“Ms. Davis? I’m Agent Redman.” His voice is gentler than I expected. “Come with me.”

While we walk, the million questions I have for Pinkie parade through my head.

What happened? Who would do this to you? When will they let you out? What do I do at work tomorrow? Is your lawyer one of those hotshots who only represent innocent people? Do you have a lawyer?

He opens the door, revealing Pinkie sitting on the edge of a chair in a small room. Dark circles have bloomed like he didn’t sleep last night.

“Gillian, you’re a sight for sore eyes.” He motions to the chair on the other side of the table. “Make yourself comfortable. Can I get you a glass of wine?”

A laugh overpowers my questions. “You can still keep your sense of humor. How are you?”

“Been better.”

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About the Author

Addison Brae lives in Dallas, Texas on the edge of downtown. As a child, she was constantly in trouble for hiding under the bed to read when she was supposed to be napping. She has been writing since childhood starting with diaries, letters and short stories. She continues today with articles, video scripts and other content as an independent marketing consultant.
Addison writes new adult and adult romantic suspense and young adult contemporary fiction. When she’s not writing, Addison spends her time traveling the world, collecting interesting cocktail recipes and hosting parties. She’s still addicted to reading and enjoys jogging in her neighborhood park, sipping red wine, binge-watching TV series, vintage clothing and hanging out with her artistic other half and their neurotic cat Lucy. 
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Dear Lyme Disease TOUR

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Non-Fiction, Self-Help, Chronic Pain

Date Published: 4/21/20

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This book is a must-read for anyone who lives with Lyme Disease, chronic
pain, and illness and is still seeking answers and support.

In 2015, Wendi’s life drastically changed when she was diagnosed with
Lyme disease and other life-threatening infections. She was once a
competitive athlete, enjoyed the flexibility and freedom of her life to
being bedridden. She shares her struggles along with her celebrations of
living with Lyme disease and chronic pain.

As you read this book, Wendi guides you through each chapter taking you
from theory to practice learning alternative healing tools and engaging in
experiential exercises to start implementing a new way of thinking, living
and finding your “new normal” and hope again.

If you are struggling with Lyme Disease, chronic illness, and pain, you
will learn to forge a new relationship with your body, mind, and soul and
learn new tools to optimize your life despite your limitations.



I discovered how strong I was when my body was at its weakest. My physical and mental body could no longer think, move, or function properly.  My life and health were abruptly rerouted on a path that was scary and unknown. 


Eventually, I knew I had to make a choice. Who was going to be in control of my future health and life, Lyme disease, or me? 


I chose me. 


I chose to trust and listen to my body so I could continue to thrive, learn, teach, and live a life of purpose. 


I chose to view my life from a new perspective to create my place in this new world of chronic pain and Lyme disease. 


Within this new view of living with multiple diagnoses, symptoms, and pain, I practiced the alternative healing tools and methods in this

book so that I could reclaim my health and start creating a life I was in love with again. 

I want the same for you.

I was able to embrace and change my experience and relationship with Lyme disease and other co-infections to help me release my fears, heal, and transform them into a story of purpose. That is what I am sharing on these pages. I wrote this book to connect people and remind all of us that we are not alone. We are on this healing journey together.  


I am not an authority on treating, diagnosing, and/or treating Lyme disease or any other chronic disease and illness. I am however an authority on living with chronic pain and the symptoms of this disease and my other related diagnoses. I also have a master’s degree in public health. 


Please note that Lyme disease and other diseases/illnesses/symptoms are profoundly serious and could be life-threatening. They require proper medical attention and care from a qualified healthcare provider or team. 


This book is not to be used as a substitute for your medical care and attention. Your life and health are important and seeking proper medical care is a priority. This book is a guide to provide you with alternative healing tools and activities to learn, practice, and empower yourself to become your own advocate to help you think better, feel better and live better in mind, body, and spirit as a whole. 

We were born to live our highest potential even with our chronic illnesses, diagnoses, and symptoms. Sure, it was easier to plan our future dreams and goals when we had the energy, focus, and felt well. Even though our path has been temporarily derailed, it does not mean we stop believing, stop having hope, and stop having a purpose. 

It only means we need to look at and approach our health and live our best lives differently. Sometimes all we need is a simple reminder, some guidance to gently nudge us and give us permission to start envisioning, creating, and living new dreams and achieving new goals.

My story focuses on my experience with Lyme disease and my personal healing process, but this could easily be your story too. 


This book was written for everyone who lives with any type of chronic pain, symptoms, and illness. This book is for those who are still seeking answers and support. The message in these pages will provide you with hope when you experience the ups and downs in your personal healing journey. 

There will be moments and days where you feel like you are succeeding and moving forward. There will be days where you feel like your health took a huge step backward. You may question your life, your purpose, and more. This is where hope comes in, the key ingredient that saved me and keeps me going. 


About the Author

Wendi M. Lindenmuth BS, MPH, is an Author, Energy Medicine and Alternative
Healing Specialist and an Intuitive Healing Artist. With over 25 years of
experience in teaching, medical and public health, and healing, she helps
people suffering from Lyme Disease, chronic illness and pain find relief
from their symptoms and limitations and start creating a life of hope,
strength and purpose again. She lives in Dresser, Wisconsin with her husband
and 2 dogs surrounded in the tranquility of Wisconsin Interstate park.

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Realms of Edenocht: The War Wizard Blitz

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Action Adventure Fantasy

Date Published: March 2020

Publisher: Rosecrest Publishing


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In a time of desperate measures, the Queen of the most powerful city in
Edenocht threw the world into a fallen and broken state in an attempt to
destroy the most powerful Necromancer the world has ever seen.  The
once magically enhanced world is no more and the elemental beings that once
inhabited it are gone. The only thing strong enough to bring it back is the
ancient artifacts of the Sev-Rin-Ac-Lavah and the only one strong enough to
use them is The War Wizard.

Edenochts only hope is a War Wizard, but none have been born in a
millennium, until now. Hidden from the Necromancer in a time realm not his
own, the future of the world resides in a barely grown man’s destiny.
The War Wizards protectors did the best they could to prepare him without
the use and teaching of his magic and Shaz must now quickly learn his true
potential and battle the evils of the shadow world.

As a being which hold all the elements and the dreaded shadow magic, Shaz
must find the descendants of the ancient magical races and the artifacts
before the Necromancer does and the world of Edenocht’s future
succumbs to the evil Shadow.


About the Author

DS Johnson is an artist, illustrator, entrepreneur, and author of the
Realms of Edenocht series for Young Adults. With over a decade of writing
Young Adult novels and graphic design and an avid online role-playing gamer,
DS Johnson has years of experience in the art of fantasy make believe and a
love for the genre of role playing games and has endeavored to bring to life
in action adventure novel form the love of the game. With quotes like
‘WOW, now that was pleasantly unexpected!’ With the natural
sense of leveling up your character and developing your skills, DS Johnson
has successfully combined the art of fantasy and role playing in a
remarkable series for young and old readers. Even if you’re not a
role-playing gamer, you will find the books Realms of Edenocht utilizes the
traditional, but exciting story telling techniques with skill and flare all
readers will love. DS Johnson works from home and enjoys family life and the
creative process.


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