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Fatty wakened, cold. Estella had stolen the covers. Folco was gone. He smelled the yeasty scent of fresh bread, and the fruity aroma of tea. He turned to the window. Still early: first breakfast, then. He sat up carefully, so as not to waken his little sister, and wondered where Folco had gone. Folco and his family were spending Yule with the Bolgers this year. He stood up, peered out the window.
There, on the frost-covered lawn: Folco, flute to his lips, playing a sprightly Yule carol. Fatty threw open the sash to hear music, swirling through the morning air.
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