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The Day of Kings, the Celebration of the Magi. In Mexico, on January 6th, children place their shoes by their windows. If they have been good during the previous year, the Wise Men tuck gifts into their shoes during the night.
Hot cocoa with cinnamon, coffee, and brown sugar.
The unicorn hardly heard him. She turned and turned in her prison, her body shrinking from the touch of the iron bars all around her. No creature of man’s night loves cold iron, and while the unicorn could endure its presence, the murderous smell of it seemed to turn her bones to sand and her blood to rain. The bars of her cage must have had some sort of spell on them, for they never stopped whispering evilly to one another in clawed, pattering voices.
A claustrophobic blend of cold iron and oak.
Bronze gears spin inside a polished wooden case, and an entire universe dances within.
Teakwood, oak, black vanilla, and tobacco.
Taut red strings of daemonorops draco and licorice root tugging on carved oak streaked with vetiver and clove with bright nerve-sparks of frankincense and elemi.
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