Welcome to my site, the kind of place where The Things That Go Bump In The Night can sometimes go BUMP in the night.
Welcome to my site, the kind of place where The Things That Go Bump In The Night can sometimes go BUMP in the night.
Liv Rancourt writes paranormal chick-lit and romance, often at the same time. She lives in Seattle with her husband, two teenagers, two cats and one wayward puppy. Liv’s day job is in a hospital where she works as a neonatal nurse practitioner, and where holding the babies is one of the biggest perks. She has also fronted a rock band and studied Gregorian chant. All of these experiences have given her great material to work with, and she’s thrilled and excited to be able to share her stories with you, the reader.
Forever & Ever, Amen
The Santa Drag
Jump HERE for an excerpt.
A Vampire’s Deadly Delight
KUDOS FOR A VAMPIRE’S DEADLY DELIGHTA Vampire’s Deadly Delight is cute, funny, exciting, and sexy. It’s short, which is good because once I started it, I couldn’t put it down. And wouldn’t you know, I started it on a night when I had to work the next day so I couldn’t just relax and enjoy it. Bummer. But as it was short, it only kept me up for half the night, not all of it. Still, it was worth it…The plot was interesting and different, with enough twists and turns to keep me hooked, as the bags under my eyes attest. Plus there were some pretty hot sex scenes—well, almost sex scenes, I guess, since they didn’t actually get to finish, but what was done was still pretty hot and steamy. All in all, A Vampire’s Deadly Delight is a really fun read. – Taylor, Reviewer
A Vampire’s Deadly Delight is a delightful paranormal romance/chick lit novella. Chick Lit isn’t really my genre, but nevertheless, I found the book thoroughly enjoyable. It’s cute, funny, intriguing, and the plot line is very different for a paranormal romance. The book has one heroine with two identities. Or should I say it has two heroines sharing the same body? Either way, the storyline is fresh and intriguing… The book is written in both third and first person, which although it’s tricky to do, it is very well done. Our two heroines, Kristen and Jai, share Kristen’s body as she is Jai’s hostess—kind of a Clark Kent/Superman situation—and both of their POVs are in first person. But all the other POVs are in third person. I was impressed that while the publisher put Jai’s and Kristen’s POVs in different fonts to help the reader tell who was who, I could tell who was speaking from the voice of the character. It takes a good author to do that, and Rancourt appears to be a very good one. – Regan, Reviewer
What a great anthology written by three great authors. I love Romance, especially Romance set at Christmas time and this anthology didn’t disappoint in any way……Now for the third story, The Santa Drag by Liv Rancourt. The author did an awesome job of bringing these characters to life and what a totally original idea. Who would ever think, a woman in a Santa suit? Every mall or sidewalk Santa I’ve ever seen has always been a man but who ever said a woman can’t do anything a man can do. This was a truly wonderfully written story! Kudos Liv Rancourt, I loved it!!
–Review by Krista Ames, Author(link to Goodreads review)
The Santa Drag, by Liv Rancourt was very short but still managed to tell a full and compelling story. I loved the Point of View, as our heroine, Mack tells us the story. It made the ending fit so well. Five Hearts from Sizzling Hot Book Reviews!
In the short story Santa Drag by Liv Rancourt, a boyish, thirty-something actress lands a gig playing Santa Claus at the Evergreen Mall. Mackenzie has no idea that her stint playing a gray-haired jolly man is going to elicit a life-changing surprise…
Rancourt has a knack for telling a great story that proves that when love is right – it is really right.
Review from Vicki DeCoster – humorist and author of From Diapers to Dorkville, Husbands, Hot Flashes, and All That Hullabaloo, and The Wacky World of Womanhood.
(Want to see all the latest Sophia news? click here)
Meet Sophia. She’s one of the most powerful little girls you’ll ever know. Her mother Stacey is a friend of mine and she can tell you better than anyone else how special Sophia is. When I told Stacey I wanted to add a feature to my blog that would allow people to donate to Team Sophia she said,
I love the idea. Mostly, I love the world knowing the miracle girl who teaches me daily to dig deeply, love unconditionally, and forgive before the sun sets. The world is better because of her.
Sophia does give us all the chance to be better people. She was born prematurely, with a number of challenges that might have thwarted a lesser kid. She’s on first-name basis with most of the staff in the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit and the Giraffe acute-care floor at Seattle Children’s Hospital. She also has a committed group of nurses and physical therapists who work with her at home. Most recently, she was diagnosed with a Wilm’s tumor, so now she’s sharing her sunshine with the staff in the chemo clinic (no more long blond hair!) and on the heme-onc floor.
But you know what? Sophia really wants to share her sunshine with her grandmother in Hawaii. Her goal is to make a trip this June, but she needs help. It’s not just Mom and Soph and a carseat and some carry-ons. Stacey’s a single mom, and she will buy plane tickets for a couple nurses who will travel with her to help with Sophia’s specialized needs. And there’s equipment – portable suction and emergency oxygen and the like. It’s all got to go, too.
The biggest bonus to developing a blog is the feeling that it’s part of a larger community, that there are people who check in here to see what’s going on in the life and writing of Liv Rancourt. Well, now I want to take it another step. Become a part of this community by donating to Team Sophia.
100% of your contributions will go to Sophia and Stacey. There are no administrative costs – money goes through Paypal into a Bank of America account that has been set up for them. The money will make it possible for them to go see Grandma and to improve their home environment so it is better suited to Sophia’s needs. I’ll post periodic updates so you know how Sophia’s doing. And for sure I’ll post pictures of their Hawaiian vacation!
You can donate to Sophia’s cause by clicking the paypal button below, & you can read the latest about how Sophia is doing by clicking here.
Between her ex and her job and her teenagers, there weren’t many chances for fun in Molly’s life. The one guaranteed bright spot was Friday Happy Hour with her best friend Sam, when they met at Coopers, the kind of place where it was too dark to see the dirt. The bartenders played ‘80s music, which helped them pretend they were back in college as they rocked out to the B52s or Pat Benatar.
Over the years they’d come to an understanding. Molly knew what it cost Sam to balance her kids, her husband and her work, and Sam knew all about Ford. Or as much as Molly was willing to tell her.
But this week they made an exception. They planned to meet at The Mystic, the new “it” restaurant in town. It was a spare and modern place that still managed to be comfortable, though their fellow diners were mostly young and beautiful, which made Molly feel old and—well, old. The floor was polished concrete and the furnishings had an industrial look that was softened with velvet cushions. The first cocktail Molly ordered had lavender liqueur in it, and the little pupu plates on the menu combined small bites with lush sauces and truffle oil that looked more like art than food.
“So did Diana torture you today?” Sam usually started off with a question about work so Molly could get it off her chest. Molly was the human resources manager for a medium-sized medical supply company, and Sam job-shared a project manager position for a graphics firm. Part-time work was a concession to having four kids, although her lawyer husband earned enough that she didn’t really need to work at all.
“No, thank God. She took the afternoon off so I actually got some stuff done.” The waiter brought their appetizer—tiny tarts filled with a deep orange substance that the menu called tomato foam and topped with a swirl of brilliant green pesto.
“What was she on about this week?” Sam asked.
“The usual. She’s all hot to get the Dallas scores up, to show that we have happy employees.” Molly shrugged. “I figure if we pay them, they ought to be happy.”
Sam smiled, giving Molly another opportunity to envy her lovely coral lips and the faint brush of peach on her cheekbones. Sam always wore makeup. They’d been sisters at Chi Omega and stayed friends after college. Sam’s straight, fawn-colored hair was usually pulled back in a ponytail, although once or twice Molly had seen it down. She’d never seen her without the lipstick, which Sam treated like a religious ritual. “Diana must get a bonus if you raise the scores.”
“Good for her. She rides me like a pony and then she gets the money.” Molly tipped her head up to catch the waiter’s eye. “I think I need one more.”
Sam picked up the drink menu. It was printed on heavy cardstock with a hand scrawled list of fancy cocktails. “Maybe the bartender makes it up as he goes along,” she said, thinking out loud as she scanned it. “Let’s try the one called Satan’s Whiskers.”
Molly, too, scanned the menu. “I’m not sure what gin and Satan have in common, but okay.”
While they waited for their drinks, Sam brought up one of her favorite topics. “So, you hate your job, right?”
“Come on, Sam, I know where this is going.”
“And your husband is in the thirty-five percent tax bracket, right?”
“Knock it off.” Molly stared out the window, shutting her friend out. This conversation was more of a rhetorical exercise, an area they’d basically agreed to disagree on. That didn’t stop Sam from bringing it up every week.
The glare from the headlights on First Avenue turned the big windows into mirrors. Molly could see a slice of herself perched like a bird between the young and trendy diners that surrounded them. Her short curly hair had dried right for a change, and she wore a tailored black suit softened by the green silk of her blouse, a color chosen to play up her bright blue eyes. If it had really been a mirror she would have picked over the crow’s-feet and scattered gray in her curls. Instead, she waited for Sam to get to the end of her lecture.
“Quit dodging. File already.”
“I’m not dodging.” Molly met Sam’s gaze head-on. “Ford owns the courtroom.”
“He wouldn’t dare mess with you. It’d be too easy to dig up dirt on him. And fuck it, sometimes you need to stand up to the things that scare you.”
Hearing the F-bomb drop from Sam’s perfect lips always made Molly smile. “Sky down, girlfriend. It’s not worth is.”
Sam sounded distracted, which was surprising. Usually she was good for several more rounds of the “you really need to file” game. Sam was the only one who knew that Molly and Ford’s “divorce” was more of an informal separation, a gentleman’s agreement, and Molly planned to keep it that way.
She noticed her friend staring at something across the room and figured talking about her kids would bring her back. “Is Patrice working on an application for St. Boniface?”
“Later. Don’t turn around.” Sam spoke through her teeth and smiled at the waiter as he passed them their drinks. Molly’s head twitched in the direction Sam was staring, because that’s what happened whenever someone told her not to turn around. “Don’t,” Sam hissed.
“What is it that I’m not supposed to be looking at?” Molly asked as she took a sip of Satan’s Whiskers. The citrusy gin cocktail wasn’t all that strong, or else the first one was already getting to her.
“There’s a guy at the bar and he’s been checking you out since we got here.”
“Doubtful. I’m not that interesting.” Molly leaned back and laughed. “We’re the wrong generation for that kind of action here.”
“He’s worked himself up to smiling. I’m going to go bring him over.” Sam half stood in her chair.
“Ah, hello, mother of four and happily married.”
“Not for me, for you. You ain’t got nothing a good lay won’t cure.” Grinning at her own joke, Sam headed towards the bar.
“Spoken like a woman who’s given birth four times,” Molly said to herself. She slowly turned around to see where her friend was going. Sam’s camel-colored wool slacks retained a knife pleat down the back, as if they’d just come from the dry cleaners, and her creamy silk blouse was barely wrinkled.
Molly had envied Sam’s polish since she was nineteen years old. With Sam’s curves, all it took to change her tailored daytime vibe to something more sophisticated was to unbutton the top couple buttons on her blouse. Molly watched Sam approach the man at the bar. When she turned around those two buttons were undone.
Sam played it up by laughing, chin up and shoulders back so he could get a glimpse down her cleavage. After a couple minutes, she led the guy towards their table. He looked smooth, as if he crossed the bar to meet strange women all the time. His caramel skin, black hair and dark lashes suggested he was from the Middle East somewhere—maybe India—and he wore a deep red turtleneck with jeans and a leather jacket.
“Molly, this is…Oh, I’m so embarrassed. What did you say your name was?” A blush bloomed under Sam’s Perfect Peach makeup.
“So pleased to meet you, Molly.” He took her hands and planted an air kiss near it. At Sam’s invitation, he joined them at their table.
Tall and dark had always been Molly’s type, and as the stranger settled into the chair next to her, Molly felt her eyes open just a bit wider and her breath get short. It was uncomfortably close to the way Ford made her feel.
“You ladies are unaccompanied,” the stranger said. His voice sounded like it had been rubbed by steel wool.
“That’s a three dollar word for Girls Night Out,” Sam laughed.
Molly sat there with a ruler running up her spine and a foolish grin. She watched Sam elegantly swirl the remains of her Satan’s Whiskers cocktail. Sam had always been the boy-magnet.
“May I buy you another?” The stranger gestured at Sam’s glass.
“Actually, my, uh, nanny just texted me.” Sam tossed off the rest of her drink. “I’ve got to go home and deal with a science project that’s gone awry.”
“Is everybody okay?” Molly was like an aunt to Sam’s kids, and their constant escapades left her with a mix of humor and worry, though in this instance she suspected there was no real problem at home.
Sam pushed away from the table. “Only a little blood. Sorry to bag on you, Mol. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
And that quickly she was gone, leaving the slightly tipsy Molly with a strange guy in an unfamiliar setting. Molly was still deciding how to proceed when the stranger leaned in closer. His scent, a rich mix of aftershave and MAN, in capital letters, sparked something down below her belly button.
Molly shifted in her chair, looking for some breathing room. He was a little intimidating, and not just because he was so much taller than her. “What did you say your name was, again?”
“Where’s your husband?”
This time she edged the chair away. “I asked you first.”
He laughed, a mellow sound compared with the gruffness of his voice. Molly’s spine softened.
“Okay, well, since you’re being secretive, I won’t tell you where my husband is, either.” Molly reached for her drink, hoping her hand was steady enough not to spill.
“You don’t want to know.”
“You’re probably right.” Molly laughed and managed to take a sip of her drink. Like this guy actually knew where her husband was. It didn’t bear thinking about. “What are you doing here, anyway? Guys our age don’t usually make lateral moves.”
“You know, hitting on someone who’s old enough to have been your prom date. Usually a guy like you wants some twenty-something pretty to help him deal with the midlife blues.”
The words were out of her mouth before she knew it. If nothing else, Satan’s Whiskers had put her internal editor to sleep. She watched nervously for his response.
Fortunately, he just raised an eyebrow and smiled instead of getting huffy. “You know little about men.”
“I know as much as I need to.” If her sleeping editor let some extra bitterness into her words, Molly ignored it. She placed her forearms on the table and leaned toward her new friend, torn between the desire to trace his lips with the tip of her finger and the fear that he might bite. She credited the fear to his resemblance to Ford.
He laughed and flagged down the waiter. “We’ll see.”
Molly trailed a finger down the hand-written cocktail menu instead, debating whether she had the intestinal fortitude for another round of Satan’s Whiskers. She glanced up to see the stranger staring at her, his gaze uncomfortably intense in the restaurant’s candle demi-light. “Red?” she asked.
“Your eyes are red.”
He blinked slowly and his smile faded. Before he could speak, the waiter came to their table. The stranger ordered them another round of cocktails, and after that the night slid into a crazy patchwork dream, the kind where things were disagreeable but too muddled for Molly to feel real fear. There was some drinking that might have involved tequila, some nervous laughter, and more of that warm feeling down below. She did remember that more than once when the light hit the stranger’s eyes at just the right angle, they turned scarlet, like staring into the heart of a fire. They left the bar, things got blurrier, then Molly woke up in her own bed, and for some reason it was noisy.
“Mom? Mom, wake up.” Molly heard pounding on the door. Her daughter’s voice sounded like it came from Pluto. “Mom?”
The bedroom door cracked open just as Molly pulled her eyelids apart. She had to shut her left eye to focus her right, but when she did she saw a slice of Flora’s worried face peeking into her room. “I’m here,” Molly whispered, because that’s all the sound she could make.
“It’s like eleven thirty.” Flora pushed the door open wider. “I’m supposed to go to Petland with Hillary to get some volunteer hours this afternoon.”
Molly stopped listening after she heard the time. “Eleven thirty? You said it’s eleven thirty?”
“I’m not even joking. I need to be at Petland at like noon.” Flora came in and dropped onto Molly’s bed. The cream-colored comforter was all twisted up, as if Molly had been doing yoga in her sleep. Flora was wearing her Saturday casual clothes, which still involved vintage black lace. Molly couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen her daughter wear anything pink or yellow. She also wondered how a fifteen-year-old girl found so many syllables in the word “Mom.”
“Um, okay. Just let me get up and dressed and…” Molly stopped struggling to sit up when she heard Flora gasp.
“Gross, Mom, you’ve totally got a hickey on your neck.” Flora was nearly squealing by the end of the sentence.
“I do not.” Molly put on her best mother’s voice.
“Do too. Jamie, come see this. Mom’s got a hickey.”
“Flora, stop it. Jamie, I do not have a hickey.” By now Molly was standing up, more or less. She tried to push her bedroom door shut so that her son Jamie couldn’t get in. He was three years older than Flora and at about six feet, two inches tall, he towered over his mother and sister. He pushed back against the door and slid his shoulders through.
“She’s right, Ma, you do have a hickey.” Jamie’s voice was deep like his father’s, and at times like this she had trouble remembering which one she was talking to. Jamie and his father shared more than their voice. They had the same name: Wallingford Jameson Spencer.
Molly rounded the end of her bed and leaned against the polished maple bureau, staring into the mirror that hung on the wall behind it. “No no no no no,” she whispered, fingertips touching the dark welt that was plainly visible right above the pulse point on the right side of her neck. Her shoulders were narrow and if her slim hips had started to widen recently, it was only to be expected when someone was forty-three years old.
“Um, I’d say it was yes yes yes, Mom.” Flora flipped her long dyed-black hair and rolled her eyes.
Molly stared at her own reflection. Her cap of loose curls was going wild and yesterday’s mascara was a shadow under her lower lashes. The light yellow nightgown she wore had only thin straps at the shoulders, so there was nothing to cover the mark on her neck. This was bad. Her cheeks bloomed bright at the thought of her kids seeing it, especially since she had no idea how it got there. She needed a shower and some time to think. She tried to say something, cleared her throat, and tried again.
“Okay, Jamie, you’ve got practice this afternoon, right? Can you go in a little early and take Flora to Petland?”
“Yeah, it’s like in the totally opposite direction, but I guess I can drive her.”
Molly made a face at him in the mirror. “If it’s not too much trouble.”
“Can I have some money for gas?” His wide brown eyes that were so much like his father’s lit up when he found an angle he could use. She’d fallen for that look so many times.
“Take whatever cash is in my wallet.” Molly sighed, and Jamie grinned at her. Fortunately his smile was his own, though she suspected he used it in much the same way his father did.
“If we’re picking up The Princess I’m not going.” Flora flounced off the bed and headed to the door. The Princess was her name for Jamie’s girlfriend. Paige was tall, blond and athletic, the complete opposite of Flora and Molly, who were both petite and dark.
“Don’t call her that.” Jamie said.
“I can’t believe you actually kiss her. I bet even her tongue’s cold.” Flora pushed past her brother and headed down the hall. He turned as if to follow her, then leaned back through the bedroom door.
“It’s probably none of my business, Mom.” That’s as far as he got.
“You’re right. It’s none of your business. Thanks for driving your sister.”
He gave her half a smile and closed the bedroom door.
Molly was glad when their bickering faded away. She sat back down on the edge of the bed and put her head in her hands, then groaned because she felt like such a cliché. She couldn’t remember. She hadn’t slept till eleven thirty in the morning since … well, college, maybe. And she had no idea why there was a hickey on her neck. Her stomach turned in on itself and she wondered if she was going to throw up.
The only noise she heard was the soft squish of feather pillows against sheets. She flipped the comforter around until it lay smooth and put both pillows behind her shoulders so that she was halfway sitting up. Her mouth tasted like she’d eaten a dead coyote and her stomach was still rumbling. When she shut her eyes, she saw a carved crystal shot glass filled with a golden liquid. Definitely tequila… maybe. That would explain her stomach.
Okay, this is bad. Forty-three-year-old mothers didn’t go out and get sucked on. She raked her memories from the night before. There was the man. He was tall, handsome, definitely crush-worthy. She couldn’t remember his name. All she came up with was talking, even sparring. No kissing. No sucking.
Embarrassment over the fact her kids had seen the mark on her neck splashed over her like a bucket of hot water. She was supposed to be scolding them for getting hickeys, not the other way around.
Obviously she could call Sam, who had been there for at least some of the shenanigans. That would mean confessing the big blank wall in her head, and it would give Sam the chance to crow over the fact that she’d finally gotten laid. Oh God, had she? Her stomach clenched as she rubbed her fingers between her legs. No. She didn’t have the raw, morning-after feeling that only happened when it was really good or a long time. And it had been a very long time. She sniffed her fingertips and only smelled herself, then exhaled with relief.
Everything in her room was normal and tidy, the jewel tone throw pillows from the bed stacked on the dresser and the nightstand clear except for the pair of gold hoop earrings she’d had on and a glass of water sitting in a circle of condensation. Yesterday’s clothes made a puddle of green and black on the hardwood floor in front of the bathroom door. Shit. That outfit would have to go to the dry-cleaner, unless she could press the wrinkles out of the suit. Worrying about her clothes kept her from worrying about bigger things, like whether the strange guy had slipped her some date rape drug and how close she’d really come to something horrible. Her breathing started getting shallow and her heart raced. Better call Sam.
Her purse was on the big antique buffet right by the front door, a piece of furniture that primarily worked as the family shit-catcher since she’d left the good china at Ford’s. All of them dropped their keys and backpacks and bags either on or in front of it when they came through the door. Her wallet and phone were in the purse, right where they were supposed to be. The credit cards were still in her wallet. Okay, so Mr. No Name hadn’t been a thief, at least.
“So tell your best friend all about it,” Sam said as soon as she answered the phone.
“I was hoping you could tell me all about it. I seem to be missing some of the details.”
“What are you talking about? Did you give him your phone number?”
Molly could hear Sam’s youngest in the background asking her to cut the crusts off her peanut butter sandwich and had a moment of gratitude that Jamie and Flora could make their own lunch.
“I don’t know. I was hoping you could remind me of a couple key things, like, maybe, his name, and whether you saw him slip me some kind of drug.”
Molly could hear Sam’s mind switching gears.
“Um, yeah. I woke up this morning—well, actually, it was almost noon, and there’s a huge hickey on my neck and I can’t remember a thing. Oh my God.” Molly bit her bottom lip to keep from crying. To distract herself, she glanced through the big front window. Her car was in the driveway, and while that was reassuring, it also meant she’d driven while, if not intoxicated, at least a little impaired. Damn again.
“Sweetie, I’m sorry. He seemed like a good guy. Are you, um, did you…”
“I’m pretty sure we didn’t have sex. I mean, it doesn’t feel like we did. I didn’t even hang my clothes up, Sam.” A weird little giggle punctuated Molly’s comments, brought on by how unreal the situation was.
“It’ll be okay. You should, like, call the cops or something. Go to the ER so they can test your, um…”
“Or take a hot shower and hope the blotch on my neck fades fast.”
“Wait, no, you have to report this guy.” The snap of the knife was audible through the phone. Sam must be cutting the bread right on the granite countertop.
“I don’t know his name, I barely remember what he looked like, and I can’t remember what happened. What am I going to report?” Molly perched on the edge of her old couch. If she tried to lean back, the fading springs would swallow her up, so she kept to the edge, knees together and elbows resting on her knees. One hand held the cell phone pressed to the ear, and the other cradled her chin.
“Well, he was… he said his name was…Fuck, I don’t remember either.” Dropping F-bombs in front of the children was a clear indication of how upset Sam was. They swapped details back and forth, but despite their efforts couldn’t remember much about the man they’d met.
“It’s useless.” Molly didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
“I’m so sorry. It’s all my fault.” Sam sounded like she might start crying.
“Stop it. Stuff happens. I didn’t get raped and the neck thing will fade. It’ll probably teach my kids something about life to see me like this. Wait, I take that last bit back.”
“Oh, your kids…”
“From now one, stick to lecturing me about my job, okay?”
“Sure,” Sam said, her voice subdued.
Molly put her phone away and went to take a shower in the small master bathroom. First, though, she had to run down to the basement laundry room to find a clean towel since the linen closet was empty. Molly shook her head when she realized it was Jamie’s turn to fold clothes. Just another opportunity to practice her mothering skills.
Half an hour later she was scrubbed and buffed and feeling marginally better. The fact that Sam couldn’t remember much about the mysterious man was somehow reassuring, as if Molly wasn’t his only target. While pulling on some clean jeans and a plum-colored turtleneck, she started packing away some of her embarrassment and dismay. Molly was very efficient at organizing her emotions and keeping them in neat little boxes.
She put on her favorite diamond earrings, and was scrunching some hair paste through her rowdy curls when she heard a sound, as if someone out in her bedroom had cleared his throat. She turned away from the bathroom mirror and leaned out the door, expecting to see a dark-haired stranger, her heart pounding so hard she could feel it in her ears.
Her bedroom was empty. Turning back she grabbed hold of the vanity’s edge. In the mirror, a man’s face was next to hers.
“Aw shit.” Molly shut her eyes, hoping that when she opened them things would be back to normal.
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