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Kiss in Time 10 page

What is everyone doing there? And are they sorry I am gone? The light off the water gets into my eyes, and they sting.

“Yeah,” Jack says.

“And they receive money for this?”

“Lots of money, crazy money.”

“It’s degrading, actually,” Meryl says from the backseat.

She has accompanied us on the car trip, apparently to serve as pseudo-governess, protecting my morals.

“It is not,” Jack says.

 

“I read this book about a girl who became a model, and she had to pose naked!”

“Truly?” I look at Jack.

“No one’s posing naked,” Jack says.

“No. No one is.”

Though I would rather not pose at all. But how else to stay here? If I wish to stay.

On the other side of the bridge, the streets are narrow and filled with people, and the buildings are each painted a different brilliant hue.

“So many colors! Signor Maratti would adore this!”

“Hey,” Meryl says, “did you know that Maratti is the name of a seventeenth-century Italian artist? After you told me about your teacher, I Googled his name.” I do not know what Google means, but I say, “Yes.

Signor Maratti was—”

I stop as Jack elbows me in the ribs. Quickly, I say, “That was Signor’s brother, er, grandbrother . . . great-grandfather or some such.”

Finally, Jack finds a place for his car. “Guess we’ll leave it here.”

“I’ll stay with it.” Meryl eyes a handsome young man in a very small bathing suit. “I’m going to sketch.” I giggle. “Will you be working on negative space? Or the positive space of that young man?”

“Both.” She settles onto the front of Jack’s car with her sketch pad.

We leave for the modeling agency. All the women in 226

 

South Beach are enormously tall, impossibly slender. Perhaps there has been a famine or a scarlet fever epidemic. I search for the telltale rash on their chests and abdomens (all of which are exposed) but see nothing. Despite their sickly thinness, the young ladies seem quite pleased with their shapes, strutting like peafowl down the bright streets.

Finally, we reach a door which says WINIFRED MODELING

AGENCY .

“I had a cousin Winifred,” I say. “She was a viscountess.”

“Yeah. Don’t mention her, okay?” He opens the door.

Inside, there is a tree in a pot and a second door, one with glass windows. We step through that door. Jack presses a button, and it closes.

“This is a very strange room,” I say.

A moment later, the door opens. The potted tree is gone! The floor outside is a different shade!

“We have been transported to another place!” I clap my hands.

Jack laughs. “Relax. It’s called an elevator. It takes you upstairs. Look.” He gestures toward a window. I look out.

Outside, the sky is blinding blue, and we are closer to it than before. I glance down, feeling suddenly dizzy.

Jack takes my arm and leads me to a door.

“We’re here to see Kim Stewart,” Jack says. “We have an appointment.” He tells her our names.

The skeletal young woman at the desk barely looks up.

“Have a seat.”

A moment later, a young man enters the room. He 227

 

moves as if he is dancing in a ballroom, and his hair is bright green. I wonder if there were always colorful-haired people in other parts of the world. He gestures us into a room with sparkling white floors and white walls lined with glass windows.



“So, which of you wants to be a model?” Jack gestures toward me. “Her. Who are you?” He gives us a look as if to say that is none of our business but finally says, “Rafael. I’m Ms. Stewart’s right-hand man.” He looks me up and down. I feel a chill run through me, as though I were unclothed, but I do not clasp my arms around me to stay warm. Indeed, I fear to move under his gaze.

Finally, he is finished. “No, thanks.”

“Excuse me?” I do not know about what, or to whom, he is talking.

“No. We can’t offer you representation at this time.

Thank you.”

He starts to walk away, and I once again feel I can move. “Oh. All right. Thank you.” I do not quite understand what “offer representation” means, either, but I do understand that our meeting is over.

“Wait a second,” Jack says. “We were supposed to meet Kim Stewart.”

The green-haired boy shrugs. “I screen for Kim so she doesn’t have to see anyone unacceptable.”

“And why isn’t she acceptable?”

“Jack . . .” I touch his sleeve. “We should leave.” The green-haired boy turns so he is once again facing 228

 

us but not quite looking me in the eye. As a princess, I am unaccustomed to being ignored in this manner, but I begin to suspect that it occurs quite frequently.

“To be brutally candid,” he says to the air, “she’s too short. And too fat.”

“Fat?” Jack and I both say at once.

“These . . .” He walks closer and gestures uncomfortably close to my bosom. “. . . are out of the question. Tyra had to tape hers down when she was modeling. There were designers who wouldn’t hire her because of her hips—

which were smaller than yours.”

“So let me get this straight,” Jack says. “Girls can’t have breasts? Or hips? But breasts and hips are cool.” The boy wrinkles his nose. “If you say so . . . but you can’t make a living off the SI swimsuit issue, and horny teenage boys aren’t buying couture. Maybe she should try Playboy.

Jack shakes his head. “Don’t think so.”

“Then there’s her hair. This . . .” He picks up a curl like my head is a wig on a stand. “The Little House on the Prairie look is completely passé. And there’s something about her skin, too.”

“What about my skin?” I ask.

“It’s just . . . weird. Do you moisturize at all? Your skin looks like you haven’t done anything for it in ten years.” Try three hundred.

“Jack!” The door opens, and Meryl rushes in. “Excuse me. Is my brother here?”

 

I cringe to see her in this pristine setting. Tall and gangly, arms and legs flying everywhere, metal teeth, hair askew, blemishes . . . blemishing. How cruel would this man be to her if, indeed, he finds me ugly? She places her hands on nonexistent hips and says, “Come on. You forgot to feed the meter and there’s a cop around the corner.” Jack fumbles in his pockets, coming up empty. “We have to go.” He starts for the door and, relieved, I follow him.

“Wait!” The green-haired boy begins to run after us.

“And who is this?” He’s gesturing at Meryl.

Jack laughs. “My kid sister.”

“She’s breathtaking. So fresh! So . . . thin! This is the type we can use.”

“Use for what?” Meryl scowls.

“As a model? Her?” Jack says.

“Yes. Well, once she gets the braces off and starts on Accutane—although we can airbrush most of that out. But she’s to die for. Look at that chest—like a little boy!” Meryl looks down, hair falling into her face. “Yeah, right.”

“And the ’tude is perfect.”

Meryl laughs. “No, thanks.” And yet, I can tell she is smiling a bit beneath her scowl. Why would she not be?

This . . . person has just said that I, Princess Talia, gifted by the fairies with flawless beauty, am not pretty while she is a vision of loveliness.

But she looks at Jack. “Didn’t you hear me? They’re about to tow your car. ” 230

 

And we leave.

We decide to take the stairs, for the elevator frightens me. Meryl is walking backward, then forward down the stairs ahead of us. “Could you believe him? That chest . . .

like a little boy! ” She breaks up laughing. “Crazy.”

“I do not think so,” I say as we reach the street and yet another enormously tall, impossibly slender young woman—a model, no doubt—smirks at me. “You are indeed quite lovely.”

Meryl makes a face, but then it turns into a grin. “Well, I know one thing—Jen and Gaby would freak if they knew.

How’d it go with you?”

I shrug. “I am too fat.”

“Excuse me?”

“Aw, they’re just crazy,” Jack says. “Standards of beauty change all the time. Most of the paintings I saw in Europe, the women were, like, obese.”

I know which paintings he’s thinking of, and I am indignant. “I do not look like a Botticelli!”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“What did you mean?”

He starts to say something, then changes his mind. “I meant that you’re beautiful, and that guy is crazy. We’ll find another agency.”

I shake my head. “I do not think so.”

“Okay. Then we’ll go to the beach.”

“After we feed the meter,” Meryl says.

j

 

We cross the street to the beach. It is hot and white and strewn with brown bodies wearing very little clothing. How amazing that being tanned is considered attractive in these times. In my day, only the field hands were tan!

Still, when we reach an empty spot and Jack peels off his shirt to worship the sun, I cannot help but look at him.

One thing is certain: He is beautiful.

I have been persuaded to wear shorts and a tank top, the better to be ogled by that young man. Jack spreads out a towel, and I arrange myself prettily upon it and pretend to gaze at the ocean. Meryl sits beside me, sketching the sky.

I glance at Jack. He, too, is working on something. I wish to ask him what it is, but I dare not intrude. I stare back at the ocean. It is nothing like the seaside in Euphrasia, which I remember from seeing Father off on journeys.

Father!

The ocean is tranquil and blue, and I am lulled into a trance watching its white-capped waves lap at the shore. I could almost go to sleep. Sleep.

Suddenly, the scene before me swirls together with me inside it. The waves rise up and touch the clouds, and from them steps Malvolia.

“Ah, Princess.” Her dark form casts a shadow over the sunny beach. “Still unlucky in love?” I glance at Jack and am pleased to see that he is looking at me. At my legs, to be specific. He admires me, does he not?

Malvolia reads my thoughts. “Aye. A boy admiring a 232

 

pretty girl. A rare thing to be certain. But love—true love—

is something else.”

But I only need more time. I know I can make him love me.

“You were to be awakened by true love’s first kiss. That has not happened, and I believe it is time for you to come with me.”

No. She cannot take me now. Just a little longer.

“Come with me.” The waves leap. The clouds above them darken, and I see Malvolia’s hand, reaching toward me, hear her voice, soothing. “Come with me. It will be all right. You know he does not love you.” It is true. I know Jack does not love me, will never love me .

“Then what is there for you? What is there for you if he does not love you?”

Nothing.

“Yes, nothing. Nothing but a family who hates you, a kingdom ruined. Princess, what have you to live for?” Nothing.

“Come with me.” Malvolia’s hand reaches closer.

“I will come with you.” I rise from the towel and start toward her hand.

“Talia?”

Another step.

“Talia!”

I look down. It is Jack, Jack calling for me. The waves, the clouds, and Malvolia all disappear, as if sucked up by a 233

 

whirlwind. Instead, there is Jack, half standing before me, a puzzled expression playing upon his face.

“Where are you going?”

I look down. I have walked several steps toward the ocean. Malvolia is gone.

“I thought I might—ah—put my feet in the water.” Jack laughs. “Take off your shoes first.” He kneels before me as if he is about to propose marriage.

But instead, he unties first one, then the other shoelace. I am reminded of a popular story of my time, about a girl named Cendrillon, who went to a ball wearing slippers of glass. But, of course, Jack would never know this story. It was told three hundred years ago! Still, when Jack’s hand brushes against my ankle, I shiver in the noonday sun.

He stands. “Come on, then.” He reaches out his hand and enfolds it in mine, then guides me toward the sapphire water.

Could Jack love me? And can I make him love me before Malvolia spirits me away?

 

Chapter 21:

j Jack

“ Now what?” Talia says in the car on the way home from South Beach. “If I am not beautiful enough to be a model . . .”

“You’re plenty beautiful,” I say.

“You wouldn’t want to be a model, anyway,” Meryl says.

“It’s dopey and vain.”

But I notice she’s actually pushed her hair out of her face since that freaky Rafael told her she could be one. And she’s been looking in the rearview all the way home, too.

“But what else can I do?” Talia whines.

“Um, you can speak four languages,” Meryl says. “You know all about art, and you’re some kind of expert in diplomacy.”

“But for a sixteen-year-old without a high school diploma,” I say, “it’s hard getting a job doing those things.” 235

 

Talia stares out at the water a long time, saying nothing.

When she does, she says, “The water here is so blue, like the sapphires in one of Grandmother’s necklaces. I used to sneak into Mother’s chamber when I was small and try it on. I dreamed of growing up one day to wear it myself.

Now I never shall.” She looks at me. “Perhaps I should return to Euphrasia.”

“To where?” Meryl says.

“Home,” Talia says. “To . . . Belgium.”

“Why’d you leave in the first place?” Talia exchanges a glance with me. “It is a long story.” I glance back to say, Don’t tell it.

“I broke a rule,” Talia says, consolidating the long story into a single sentence. “There were horrible consequences, and my father was terribly disappointed in me. He said he wished I had never been born.”

“Harsh,” Meryl says. “What kind of rule was it—like a curfew or failing in school? Scratch that—you’d never fail in school.”

“Not exactly,” both Talia and I say together.

“Did you, like, sneak out at night with someone?”

“No,” Talia says. “I never sneaked. I was watched con -

stantly, for they were worried I would be pricked with a spindle.” I give her a look, and she says, “I mean, that my purity would be compromised.”

“Did you wreck your parents’ car?” Meryl says.

Talia laughs. “Definitely not that.”

“Smoke pot? Get drunk?”

 

“No,” I tell her. “Stop asking.”

But Meryl keeps on going, ignoring me. “You didn’t kill anyone, did you?”

“Of course not, Meryl!” I say.

“Because Jack’s done all those things—except killing someone—and my parents keep forgiving him, anyway.”

“Is that true?” Talia says.

“Once, Jack and Travis got picked up by the police for egging cars on Eighty-second Avenue. And one of the cars he egged was the president of Mom’s garden club.”

“Meryl,” I say. “We don’t need to talk about—”

“So the doorbell rings at midnight,” Meryl continues.

“Mom opens it in her robe, and there’s two cops standing there. They had a tip from a cashier at Publix that some teenage boys were in there buying ten dozen eggs. The cashier didn’t think they were making a soufflé with them, so she called the cops.”

“Meryl, will you please shut—”

“You threw food at passing cars?” Talia says.

“Just eggs,” I say, glaring at Meryl. “Everyone does stuff like that.”

“But a hundred and twenty eggs could feed ten families or ward off starvation in the wintertime when food is scarce. Do you have any idea how many hens it would take to lay ten dozen eggs?”

“Yeah, Jack,” Meryl says, grinning. “Do you know how many hens?”

Talia keeps going. “It seems dreadfully wasteful and 237

 

thoughtless to throw them—particularly at another person’s property.”

“That’s my brother, Jack, Mr. Wasteful and Thoughtless.”

“I didn’t take them away from starving people,” I tell Talia. “I bought them.” I never thought about the eggs being food for someone before. How does Talia think of this stuff? Not one other person I know would think about wasting the eggs—not even my parents. When you think of it that way, it does sound sort of . . . “Okay, it was stupid.”

“Very,” Talia agrees.

“Jack’s always doing dumb stuff,” Meryl says. “And my parents always forgive him.”

“Forgive?” I laugh. “They don’t even notice. They never notice anything I do.”

“They notice plenty,” Meryl says. “You don’t have a bedroom next to theirs, so you didn’t hear them every night for a week, discussing whether to send you to a child psy-chologist or military school.”

“Military school?” The idea makes me shudder.

“And every time Mom ran into Mrs. Owens—that’s the lady whose car Jack egged—she asked Mom if she was getting dear Jack ‘the help he needs and deserves.’ Mom was totally humiliated.”

“I can imagine,” Talia says. “Poor lady.”

“It was a long time ago,” I say. “Can’t we talk about the dumb stuff you’ve done?” Why does she have to embarrass 238

 

me in front of Talia? I don’t embarrass her in front of her friends. At least I wouldn’t, if she had friends.

“I never got picked up by the cops.”

“You’re young. There’s still time. Besides, you’re learning from my mistakes.”

“Are you proud of being a bad example?”

“Be quiet.”

But still it’s weird. I always thought my parents didn’t much care what I did, just wanted me out of their way.

Could I have been so wrong about that?

“Parents always forgive you,” Meryl says. “Like sometimes, you see parents on the news, and their kid just got busted for murdering a 7-Eleven clerk, and they’re like, ‘But my Bubba’s a good boy. He’d never hurt a fly.’ So I’m sure your parents would forgive you for whatever you did.” Talia looks out the window. We’ve crossed the bridge, and now there’s nothing interesting to look at, just gray office buildings on both sides. I remember the beautiful castle and scenery in Euphrasia. Finally, she says, “Do you think so, Jack?”

“I’m not sure.” Talia’s father seemed like a real stickler, even for a king, and he did say all that crummy stuff to her. But maybe Meryl’s right (there has to be a first time for everything). Maybe he’d forgive her, even for ruining their entire country. They’re probably worried sick about her—especially considering they don’t have any phone or email or even a radio. So it’s really like she disappeared into a black hole. But I don’t want her to leave.

 

Talia might have been a little annoying at first. Okay, she was completely impossible. But I realize that’s just because she’s not like anyone I’ve ever known before. No one I know would think of the eggs as . . . well, eggs.

If she were gone, I’d miss her.

And I guess I’m feeling a little selfish when I say, “I don’t know. But we have six more days, so maybe you should think a little more about it.”

Talia nods. “I suppose you are right.” 240

 

Chapter 22:

j Talia

Iam a coward. I am a cowardly coward, full of cowardice.

Part of me knows that Meryl is right, that I should contact my parents, go back home, that they are concerned about me.

But I am less certain than Meryl that my father will forgive me. Jack’s mother seems like a lovely person, and I am certain Jack’s father is likewise so. But they are not royalty. Neither did they call upon an entire nation to guard Jack from harm, only to have him bring it upon himself by some thoughtless mistake. However many eggs Jack threw, he did not bring ruination upon his family, much less his country.

I tell this to Jack as we eat french fries and pull weeds.

We have gone, at my request, to the park where Jack once planted the garden. It is a sad sight, full of thorns and none 241

 

too very many flowers. But, with our help, it looks quite a bit better. I have even touched dirt now! Jack is right. It does smell clean, like the air. After an hour, we walked to the McDonald’s nearby and got french fries. More french fries!

“Who knows if Euphrasia is even a country anymore?” I pull a large weed. “And if it is not a country, then my father cannot be king. He could never forgive me for that.”

“Maybe he could do something else,” Jack says. “Like, take a computer course.” But he looks unconvinced. He sticks a handful of french fries into his mouth. On the other side of the park, children play a game. They are dressed in matching shirts and short pants of gold and ruby and emerald and orange. The object of their game appears to be to kick a spotted ball into a net while preventing the other team from so doing.

At the palace, I often stood by the window and watched the peasant children. Their lives seemed consumed by work. Boys helped their fathers in the fields. Girls milked cows and gathered eggs. But they did play, when the work was done. I watched them sometimes from the windows, and I wished I could join them.

There is a large tree nearby, an old one with moss hanging from it. I nudge Jack.

“Teach me to climb that tree! I have never climbed one.”

Jack looks at the tree, dubious. “That’s a hard one.”

“Would it be difficult for you?” 242

 

“No, I . . .”

“Then show me. I am stronger than I look.” He nods and walks to the tree. “You have to get a good grip first. There aren’t any low branches, so you use your fingers. Then, dig in with your feet.” I try it. It is far more difficult than I had imagined.

“What if I fall?”

“I’m behind you. I’ll catch you.”

This seems to help, for I am suddenly able to dig my feet in and climb a bit.

“Good,” Jack says. “Now, grab that branch above you and pull yourself up.”

I do. I do! And next thing I know, I am sitting upon the branch.

“Now, grab the next one and get up on it,” Jack says.

But I am already doing that. It is easy, now that I have started, and soon I am so high that the park seems to swim beneath me, and Jack is climbing up behind me. When we reach the highest branch I dare, I sit upon it and look down.

The earth spins below me, and yet it is fine, like everything has been today. So what if I cannot be a model, if I am no longer considered beautiful, if Malvolia is trying to catch me. I am climbing a tree! And I am doing so with Jack.

He comes up behind me. “You did it.”

I nod. We sit there a moment, watching the children at play.

 

“Why do you suppose this has happened?” I ask Jack.

“What has?”

“You. Me. You finding me after all those years. Of all the people who could have stumbled upon Euphrasia, why you?”

“I said I was sorry about not being a prince.”

“No. It is just . . . odd when you think about it. Had you and Travis not been in Belgium, and had you not been bored and looked for the beach and taken the wrong bus . . . I might still be asleep. Or some Belgian boy might have found me. In any case, I would not be here.”

“It is weird when you put it that way,” he says.

“Yes. Do you know the story of King Arthur and the Sword in the Stone?”

“I saw the movie with Keira Knightley. But they didn’t concentrate on the stone part—mostly it was about Keira in a breastplate. She was Guinevere.” Guinevere in a breastplate? How interesting. “Arthur was the son of a king who died,” I say. “He was raised by Sir Ector, a knight. No one knew he was heir to the throne.

Then, one day, a strange stone appeared in a churchyard.

In the stone was a glittering sword, and written on it, in letters of gold, ‘Whoso pulleth out this sword of this stone and anvil is rightwise king born of all England.’” I swing my feet a bit and continue.

“Many knights tried to take the sword, but none could budge it. So a day was chosen when all could try, and jousts were held as well. Sir Ector and his son, Kay, and Arthur 244

 

also came. But when it was time for the joust, Kay found that he had broken his sword. He asked Arthur to ride back for another. When Arthur returned to the castle, he could not get it. That was when he remembered the sword he had seen in the churchyard. The guards were away, and the sword was there, alone. Thinking only to get a sword for his brother, young Arthur took the hilt and drew the sword from the stone.”

I love this part!

“Why could he take it out when no one else could?” Jack asks.

“He was meant to be king. Destiny. Do you believe in destiny, Jack?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Do you not think, Jack, that perhaps it was destiny, you going to the castle? Do you think you were destined to be the one to wake me?”

I wait. If he believes in destiny, perhaps he will believe that he is my destiny. I sit, feeling the wind upon my face.

Below, the boys are finished playing. They run their several ways, some stopping at the newly weeded garden.

“Hey, would you look at this?” one of them says.

“Yeah. Someone got rid of all the weeds.”

“Cool.”

What will Jack say? What will he say?

Finally, he says, “I don’t know.”

“You do not know?” The words explode from me like cannon fire, and some of the children look up at us. “But 245

 

what do you think? Surely you must think something, sometime, you silly boy?”

It is useless. I was wrong to believe that Jack could be my destiny, my beloved. He cares not for me at all. He thinks of nothing but play.

“Never mind,” I say. “It is of no import.”

“But you didn’t let me finish. I was going to say that I don’t know about destiny. I don’t know if there even was a King Arthur, or if that’s just some dumb story.” I sigh, not merely because I adored Morte d’Arthur, but also because Jack is missing my point entirely.

“But what I do know is that everything’s different since I’ve been with you. I’m different. Like being here.

I might have thought about coming here, but I wouldn’t have. I’d have been out partying. You made me remember. I don’t know if I was destined to wake you up, or if it was just dumb luck. But I’m glad it happened this way.”

“Are you?” I ask.

He nods. “Before, I’d say I didn’t want to do what my dad wanted, but I knew I’d end up doing it, anyway. I’d go to college and major in what he wants me to major in and do what he wants me to do, and one day I’d wake up and I’d be sixty and with all my decisions made for me.” His voice is soft, and he smells of dirt and the air above us, and it is a clean smell.

“And now?” I say.

“Now, maybe I won’t.”

 

I nod. This is where he should say that he is in love with me, that I have changed his life and that he loves me for it.

But he doesn’t. Is it because he is shy? Or because he is too young to say such a thing? Too scared after Amber?

Or is it merely because he does not love me?

The worst of it is, I am falling in love with him. Before, I was merely trying to make him love me. My own feelings were meaningless. But now, I, Princess Talia, am in love with a boy, a boy who does not love me back.

Jack takes his telephone from his pocket and looks at it. “I guess we should be going. Meryl just texted that my dad’s actually coming home for dinner.”

“Really?” I try to swallow my disappointment. “I look forward to meeting him, and you can discuss some matters with him as well.”

“Some matters,” meaning, of course, his hopes and ambitions. I am one to talk, having run away from my own father. Still, I suspect at least some things are easier for those not to the castle born. While Jack’s father may be angry if Jack fails to follow in his path, it is the tradition of a mere generation or so, not the divine right of kings. And Jack will only be disappointing his own family, not an entire kingdom.

Jack says, “Yeah, maybe. Can you get down?” I look, and I am dizzy again, but I say, “I think so.”

“I’ll catch you if you fall. Or you can fall on me.” He starts to climb down.

When we reach bottom, I say, “Jack, what is a garden 247

 

club?” When he gives me a questioning look, I say, “Meryl said that you egged a car owned by the president of your mother’s garden club.”

Jack shrugs. “I’m thinking it’s a club for ladies who like to . . . garden.”

“So then your mother is interested in plants as well?”

“I guess.”

“And you have never told her of your shared interest?”

“I never . . .” He shifts his knees. “I mean, she wouldn’t care. My dad wants me to go into his business. He’s in charge.”

I laugh. “You do not know the first thing about women, do you?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Even in my time, we knew that men were not in charge. Oh, they might bluster as if they were. But when it came down to it, we women bore much of the influence.

Often, my father would make some grand pronouncement in the evening. And the next morning, he had changed his mind. After a while, I realized that it was my mother who had changed it, quietly, in the night.” Jack appears to think about it. “So you’re saying . . .”


Date: 2015-02-03; view: 535


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