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Five or six Marsh-wiggles glance up from a wooden table. Each has a pint mug by his or her hand, but whatever they’re drinking isn’t cheering them up. I look around for Alderwood, to strangle him, but he has vanished. I mentally swear vengeance upon him and that fiend Reepicheep, who set me up in a way that is undoubtedly bringing pure sweet joy to the cold shriveled heart of my producer. Sure enough, Tracey is the only person in the room who looks happy. Todd sags, as if wishing to sink through the floor, and knocks over a tray of glow-worms.
“They’d have died soon enough,” says Weedwoe, brushing off his apologies and scooping up the enthusiastically wriggling grubs. “Everybody does.”