September, 1939. The moon shines silver on the looming yew trees. Thinking of her fiancé, fighting for his life and country in the war, breaks Eleanor’s heart, but also gives her courage. She takes a deep breath, picks up her camera, and follows the dancing lights into the maze. Present day. With her little brother Missing in Action, gardener Megan Taylor runs from her grief to take a job at Foxfield Hall – a centuries-old place full of myths and folklore – restoring the wild maze in the overgrown gardens. Throwing herself into shaping the tangled ivy, Megan soon becomes drawn into the mystery of Lady Eleanor Fairfax, the Hall’s most famous resident… the villagers say she disappeared without trace at the Harvest Festival in 1939, leaving behind a grieving father and a heartbroken fiancé. Leafing through delicate old newspaper cuttings and gazing at an ornately framed portrait of the missing woman, Megan is full of questions. Although no body was ever found, could Eleanor have been murdered? Did she run away, unwilling to marry the man who loved her? Or, with her father working at the War Office, did Eleanor stumble upon a secret she shouldn’t have? Then, one night under a full moon, a mesmerising light inexplicably draws her to the entrance of the maze. Megan is filled with a strange certainty that, if she follows it into the shadows, it will lead to the truth about Eleanor… but could Megan herself be the next occupant of Foxfield Hall to be lost forever? A spellbinding, magical and addictive tale about the mysterious and ancient legends at the heart of the English countryside, and how to find those who are lost. Perfect for fans of Outlander, Susanna Kearsley and The Binding. Read what everyone’s saying about The Lost Girls of Foxfield Hall : ‘ Wow… This story literally has it all… so intense… kept me on the edge of my seat throughout the entire story, unable to put it down and stop reading… beautifully written, woven together with twists and turns… Beautiful.’ Goodreads Reviewer, ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐
‘ This was terrific! I couldn't put it down… I loved the dual timelines… I loved the characters… had me on the edge of my seat. Fantastic! ’ Goodreads reviewer, ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐
‘A spine-chilling tale… kept me on the edge of my seat… spellbinding historical fiction… you should definitely read.’ @thestarrylibrary ‘ I was hooked… a magical mystery ride… engrossing… I would definitely recommend.’ NetGalley Reviewer ‘ This book hit the spot… tension-filled, emotional… had me flipping pages as quickly as I could read them… highly recommend it to anyone who enjoys a little history with their magic.’ Fiction Flock ‘ Unbelievably beautiful and powerful book… will transport you as you travel through the English Countryside with a vast range of emotions! ’ Naomi Alice
Release date:
March 26, 2021
Publisher:
Bookouture
Print pages:
350
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They meet beneath the spreading boughs of the great yew tree which has stood in that spot for even longer than the Hall. Their place, just for them, ever since he had persuaded her to climb out of her bedroom window and reach for the outstretched branch. But she had been too young then, too small, and she had slipped. He tried to catch her, but he was just a child as well and they had ended up in a tangle of limbs and tears.
Fifteen years have passed since then, just a blink of an eye to the watcher, and the children are adults now. But still, so young. Tears flow now as well, but for another reason, another pain. Tears of parting.
This time, leaving the Hall with its lights and comforts, they walk into the twilight and the young woman folds into his embrace.
‘It won’t be long,’ he murmurs, her gentle lover, her dearest friend. ‘It can’t last long. It’ll be over before—’
She presses a finger to his lips. ‘They said that about the last war, David. Let’s not make the same mistake.’
He kisses her fingertip and smiles as she releases him.
‘They need pilots.’
‘And you just had to volunteer.’ Her returning smile is shaded with heartbreak. ‘Any chance to be a hero.’
‘Your hero. Always. It isn’t forever, and I will come back every possible chance I get.’
‘I know you will. I know. I just—’ She pulls away, but not entirely, because she can’t leave him entirely. She still holds his hand. ‘I don’t even know what I’m doing here.’
‘You’re helping your father with the estate.’
‘Am I? It doesn’t feel like it. I’m lost here. He just wants me home to keep me out of trouble.’
‘Keep you out of trouble, Ellie? Whoever could manage that?’
She tries to smile at his joke. She fails. ‘I should be doing my bit too. There’s nothing for me to do here except play lady of the manor. What use is that?’
‘Nothing? What about that ghost of yours? Weren’t you going to find out all about her, track her down? That was your plan. Now you have time.’
She blushes, looks away. ‘Don’t tease, David. Anyway, Father called it a childhood fantasy.’
But David smiles, and gently turns her face back to his. ‘I know you still believe in her. Come with me.’
They make their way through the gardens, hand in hand, until they reach the dark walls of the maze, drowning in the scent of yew. But they have no fear, these two. This is their place and has been all their lives. They have no notion of the things that they should fear that linger in this place.
And there in the heart of the maze, in front of the ancient well, she kisses him again. For a time, they lose themselves in each other.
‘See? There’s no ghost here,’ she tells him. She sounds almost resigned. ‘You were right. Everyone was right.’
The watcher almost laughs. But all she can do is watch.
For now.
‘Here,’ David says and pulls a black box from the pocket of his overcoat. ‘I bought it for you in London. So you can photograph the Green Lady.’
The young woman glares at him, suddenly suspicious. ‘Are you making fun of me?’
He recoils in mock horror, which makes her smile reluctantly. She can’t help it. ‘I wouldn’t dare, Lady Eleanor. I am but a lowly suitor, the Arthur to your Guinevere, a wandering knight errant who is not worthy to—’
‘You’ll be back by Harvest Festival to win my favour?’ She smiles and the teasing tone infects her voice. It is a game they play.
He wants to say yes. He wants to make that promise. He wants to so badly. The evidence is there in his expression, in his earnest eyes. But he cannot make that promise. No one can. The good humour dies.
‘I… I’ll try…’ he whispers, but it’s a sound of defeat. He doesn’t know what the future holds. He can show bravado with anyone but her. They know each other too well. And the war is coming. It’s in the air. It rumbles through the earth and whispers a siren song of heroism and sacrifice, a harbinger’s wail of deaths to come. ‘If there’s any way…’
She pulls him close again, rests her face against his chest, and he struggles to calm his breath. ‘You don’t have to promise me anything.’ She turns the box over and over in her hands. Little glass discs on its front and back glisten in the moonlight. ‘This must have cost a fortune,’ she murmurs in wonder.
‘It’s worth every penny. Look, you can be as famous as Harry Price.’
She rolls her eyes at him. ‘Oh, can I? Lucky old me.’
He grins, a lopsided, rakish grin. It is charming and endearing, and so filled with love. ‘Go on. Catch me a ghost, Ellie.’
She shakes her head, exasperated with his gentle teasing. But she doesn’t argue. Instead her eyes fill with tears and she looks up at him. In those glistening blue eyes, the watcher sees the dread, the fear that she will never see him again. She is trying to drink him down, to sear his face into her memory.
‘As easy as that,’ she says.
‘For you, yes. There’s nothing you can’t do, my love. I have film for you and even a flash. The bulbs are expensive though so don’t waste them. They’re back in the house, in the bag. But I wanted to surprise you.’
‘You did,’ she says, and her voice wavers. She pauses for the longest moment before she seems to pull herself together, making herself brave. ‘Promise me you’ll write.’
He enfolds her in his arms and holds her close, each of them pushing their fears and doubts, their regrets, down deep inside.
‘Whenever I can.’
‘My champion,’ she says in reply, and they laugh at a shared, secret joke. Then they kiss again.
When they part, their fingertips still cling together, like a promise. As if they can’t bear to let go.
The watcher felt that once. Long ago. She longs for it. Longs to feel again, to live, to breathe.
To love.
To be a maiden with a champion of her own.
But she refused to betray her love, and she was betrayed by those who should have loved her most, her own blood. She died a sacrifice’s death, strangled, drowned, bled dry. A tithe to the land, to power, to the greed of another.
And now, bound by ancient magic to the well, encircled and entrapped by a labyrinth of yew, all she can do is wait until she can walk again. Step by agonising step, she drags herself towards the Hall, under the light of the harvest moon.
But one day she will get home.
Owen had made Megan promise she wouldn’t live life looking over her shoulder. That she wouldn’t fret, or obsess about all the what if’s, should something happen to him. Move on. It was easier that way, he said. He’d tried to make Mum promise too. She refused, but Megan could never say no to her brother.
Especially not now.
New place, new job, new start.
Passing through a village that looked like a postcard, she let the GPS guide her, noticing that, despite the fact she was supposed to be in the rural heartlands, hers seemed to be the only Land Rover around which had ever been off road. Not to mention that it was about fifteen years older than any of its shiny cousins.
As she imagined the kinds of people who might own these cars – country types in name only – she reminded herself she wasn’t here to socialise. Just to work. And Sahar had done her a huge favour by recommending her for this gig. Not to mention arranging accommodation and basically doing everything she could to, quote: ‘lure you down here so you can stop me losing my mind’.
It hadn’t been a difficult task.
She just needed to get away from home, from family, from everything.
Five minutes beyond the village, just after the back of the pristine ‘Welcome to Ashleigh’ sign, the road forked. Megan took the left, passing under the dappled shade of a stand of oaks, around a bend, and then she saw the gates. You couldn’t miss them. They stood open but were still huge and imposing. They were flanked by another sign – white with a green maze logo and the flowing red line representing a fox. Foxfield Hall.
The long gravel drive wound up through a wooded area which gave way to rolling lawns. She caught a glimpse of something that could have been a ditch or could have been a long-neglected ha-ha and then the house came into view. Beautiful, no doubt about it. Unique. And old. She’d seen the photos Sahar had emailed, and scouted out the place online before saying she’d take the job. There were some aerial photos which showed elements in the land that had given her all sorts of ideas and her research had left her excited. God knew, she needed something to excite her these days.
She parked around the side, away from the gleaming rows of high-end Mercs, Beemers and the others she couldn’t name arrayed across the neat car park. The second car park was off to one side and she pulled in by an off-white van and a rather sad-looking Ford Fiesta. Never let it be said she got ideas above her station. If there was a staff car park she had to guess this was it, or else it was very well hidden and this was where the rebels left their vehicles.
Sahar hadn’t mentioned the five stars. Or maybe she had, and Megan had been too focused on the prospect of the gardens and the maze to listen. But she shouldn’t be surprised. Now that she thought of it she was fairly sure the words ‘luxury’ and ‘exclusive’ had been bandied around.
Still, she was in a reasonably smart, if affordable, trouser suit, or would be when she put the jacket on. She fished it out of the rear of the Land Rover, where she had draped it carefully over her bags, far away from the equipment she’d brought with her. Sahar had assured her that everything she would need would be here but there were some things that were sacred. Her own tools, for example.
As she walked back around the corner of the building, a woman appeared at the steps leading to the columned portico at the front, the entrance to the hotel, her midnight hair in a neat bun, her blouse, waistcoat and skirt so well cut that it took a moment before Megan realised they were a uniform. It took even longer to realise it was Sahar. Her oldest friend, ever since they’d met at school.
Sahar gave a squeal of excitement and threw her arms around Megan’s neck, pulling her down into a hug. Normally, she’d squirm and complain but, right now, she needed this and she sank into the embrace in relief, and Sahar, always sensitive to the feelings of others, held her as long as she needed. ‘I’m so glad you said yes!’
Megan hadn’t actually said yes. Not yet. It was just that it was very hard to say no to Sahar at the best of times. And this was not the best of times. Hadn’t been for months. But she pushed that thought away.
Seeing Sahar again almost made everything better. Coming here was the best decision she had made in an age. Not that she would admit that to Sahar. She would never hear the end of it.
‘I didn’t get the impression there was an alternative answer.’
‘Well of course there wasn’t. Ready? This is just a formality, I promise. With your reputation, references and CV they’d be lucky to have you.’
And they were certainly paying enough. Megan didn’t say that out loud. No one had even blinked when she named her price. Restoration of historic gardens did not come cheap.
She pasted a professional smile back on her face. ‘Ready.’
The house was beautiful, a sprawling manor of a place, like something out of a fairy tale. It wasn’t one style, but looked more like every historical period was represented in some way, a few that didn’t even belong at all. Victorian with a touch of Gothic here, and Dutch Baroque there, some Tudor elements buried deep underneath. And under that, even earlier elements. Foundations that went back to time out of mind. She made out half-timbered gables, and twisting red-brick chimneys. There was a dome jutting out of the roof at one point, and a massive conservatory off to one side. The building rambled over the space, wings added on wherever the fancy had taken a particular generation. All of it beautiful and elegant, unique. But unplanned. It was the type of building that had grown organically, as if of its own volition. A house and its grounds usually went hand in hand, or ought to. Matching this would be a trick and a half.
‘Gorgeous, isn’t it?’ said Sahar. There was genuine love in her voice for the place. Sunlight glimmered off the windows and made the red bricks warm and comforting. ‘The family, the Fairfaxes, lived here for generations, just adding on bits over the years. I like to think they collected architectural features. Whenever they went travelling, they came back with a new idea and just slapped it onto the house. The interior is the same, modernised now of course and refitted for the hotel, but it keeps its charm. You’ll see.’
Megan had no doubt she’d get the full tour as soon as this trial – or interview, she should call it – by the board of trustees was over.
‘The apartment’s here too?’ she asked.
‘It’s round the back. Just you and me, babes, like old times. Less parties than college though. Oh, and Amir when he visits. That’s okay with you, isn’t it?’
Megan grinned. Amir, Sahar’s boyfriend, worked in the City, and she adored him. The commute down to Ashleigh wasn’t too arduous but it wouldn’t be a daily thing, not with the hours he worked.
‘So long as you keep him in your bedroom at night, I don’t mind at all.’
Sahar gave her a wicked grin. ‘Not a problem, babes. Right then, you ready to wow the bigwigs?’
The wince was immediate. Megan couldn’t help herself. ‘Not sure about that, Sahar.’
‘Why not? You always do. Come on.’
The interior was just as eclectic as the building itself, although the style was more muted, tailored to appeal to a wide audience of visitors, and completely Instagrammable. It billed itself as a boutique luxury hotel, and Megan could see why. It fitted. It was the type of place that didn’t scream money because it didn’t need to. It had that old-world, eternal quality to it. And Sahar was right at home here, all efficiency and businesslike calm. The moment she stepped inside there was no doubt she was running the place. Megan followed her, a little bemused to see the transformation in her old friend.
But every so often Sahar would meet her gaze and give her a look that made her stifle a giggle, just in case Megan was afraid she had come over all corporate clone. Maybe having your best friend on the periphery of a formal interview wasn’t the best idea ever, not if you didn’t want to burst out laughing.
The meeting room had more oak panelling on the walls than a druid’s grove. The round conference table was a modern piece which had been made from a cross-section of some ancient beech tree, highly polished so the rings made a pattern like ripples in a pond. Sitting around it were three men and a woman. Sahar motioned Megan towards one of the remaining seats and then took a place beside her.
A young woman with bright red, pre-Raphaelite hair and soft hazel eyes behind a pair of expensive wire-framed glasses smiled at her, a smile which took Megan completely by surprise. The young man next to her scowled for a moment and then smoothed his features. He was nearer thirty than twenty, with that kind of physique that said he liked to keep fit, had played something like rugby since school but was enjoying the beer a bit too much these days. He wore a suit that looked more expensive than anything Megan had ever owned, including her Landie. All the same, it hung on him like a cheap rag. The other two men were older, and eyed her curiously, no doubt trying to work out why a young woman would work in a profession like hers, or cut her hair quite so short. Just as well they couldn’t see the tattoos really. But then, she didn’t let just anyone see them.
Megan pasted a smile on her face.
‘Miss Taylor, thank you so much for coming,’ said the pre-Raphaelite artist’s flame-haired fantasy. She smiled again, her fingertips playing on the edge of the tablet in front of her. ‘I’m Nora Grainger, and this is Alan Brooks, Dr James Havesham and Professor Fred Deacon. We form the trustees of Foxfield Hall. We really just wanted to welcome you and discuss the plans for the grounds.’
‘Particularly the maze,’ said Professor Deacon. He had the distracted gaze of someone who really didn’t want to be there.
‘The maze,’ Mr Suit scoffed suddenly. He’d been introduced as Alan Brooks, Megan reminded herself, and she knew his type. A second later he confirmed her opinion. ‘We should just bulldoze the bloody thing and the woods beyond it and turn it all into a golf course.’
It took all Megan had in her not to let her jaw drop so hard it dented the exquisite table. But someone else replied.
‘We talked about this, Alan, and voted,’ said Nora Grainger, her tone cool. She’d had this conversation more than once, that was for sure. He scowled back at her and for a moment she seemed to wilt, but then the others cut in.
‘The house and the maze are Grade II listed and that’s the end of it,’ said Dr Havesham. ‘We are here to speak to Miss Taylor, not to rehash old arguments yet again. Miss Taylor?’
Nora Grainger shuffled through some of the papers in front of her, without making eye contact with anyone. Beside her, Sahar shifted in her seat but said nothing. Megan could sense that she was suppressing the urge to tell Brooks where to go on Megan’s behalf. She could read Sahar like an open book.
Why invite her here if all they wanted to do was bulldoze the place? She decided to focus on the others.
‘Call me Megan,’ she said, relieved to have the opening. And with that she began to lay out her plans for the estate. Sahar had sent her photos and Megan had drawn up plans. She had already sourced a number of key specimens as well as planting that would fill the spaces and mature with time. They wanted this done quickly and were willing to pay for that. Replanting areas with broadleaf native trees on the approach for romantic woodland walks would take longer, but a replica of a traditional cottage garden to provide organic vegetables for the kitchens was easier, as was the most important item: the restoration of the maze, complete with a transformation of the central area to make a secret garden, the kind so beloved of wedding photographers and the Chelsea Flower Show with which she had made her name as a landscape gardener. She had several awards for her small garden designs, and this was no different. A lot of the structure and the necessary elements were already there, ready to be shaped into something magical. She broke the grounds down into sectors, describing the function and atmosphere she wanted to create for each area. She had them in the palm of her hand in no time and, beside her, Sahar beamed. Delighted to be right.
When she’d finished she’d made the case for it financially as well as horticulturally.
That was the deal-closer. Even Mr Turn-it-All-into-a-Sodding-Golf-Course was onside. Or at least, onside enough.
Megan knew she had them from their expressions and also because this wasn’t the first time she’d had to do this: persuade people that, actually, the land they took for granted could give them so much if they only took care of it.
And she was interviewing them as much as the other way around, just as Sahar had said. She asked her questions clearly, succinctly, and got the answers she wanted.
The problem was, every time she looked up, she saw Nora Grainger, with her slender face, hazel eyes and alabaster skin, her red hair in rich waves that had to come from a high-end salon. The woman was distracting. That was the problem.
Sahar thanked everyone and invited Megan for a cup of coffee in the drawing room, suggesting the board might join them when they were ready.
Because obviously they needed to dissect everything she had said first.
‘Oh my God, babe, you were amazing,’ said Sahar when the door shut behind them. ‘I mean, I knew you would be, but it was like watching a master at work. Come on, they’ll have the coffee ready for us by now. I asked Hattie to time it.’ She checked her watch. ‘I was only out by five minutes.’
Megan grinned at Sahar, relief swamping her system, leaving her with a buzz that meant coffee wasn’t actually needed.
The drawing room was a neat little sitting room off the bar, which Sahar explained had once been the morning room. The door at the end led into a library. A special collection, apparently, and one jealously guarded. Sahar chatted about the building and her plans for the hotel, but eventually the conversation inevitably lurched back towards home and the one subject Megan didn’t want to get to.
‘How’re your parents?’
Megan put the cup down with an undignified clatter. ‘They’re good. Well, you know. Dad doesn’t like to talk about it. Mum… well, once she gets started…’
She didn’t want to finish that. It didn’t seem fair. She drank some more coffee instead and wished they could talk about the house again. But she owed Sahar an update, didn’t she?
Sahar looked down into her coffee cup. ‘Has there been any word at all?’
Megan’s throat closed on a tight lump. ‘Nothing. They’re saying absolutely nothing. That’s not good.’
‘But… they have to keep looking, don’t they?’
You’d think. Leave no man behind, wasn’t that what everyone said? But Owen had been missing for too long now. Megan knew what that meant. Missing in action just meant they couldn’t find the remains. In her heart of hearts she knew her brother was dead, even if she didn’t want to say so. Her mother, on the other hand…
‘They’re doing everything they can.’
It was a stock reply. It usually shut people up. Not Sahar though.
‘What does that even mean?’
Megan glared at her. She couldn’t keep going like this and she knew Sahar well enough to be blunt. ‘It means I don’t want to talk about it. It means I’m here because I don’t want to be at home any more because… well, you know my mother, right? You’ve met her.’
Sahar had the good grace to hide the grimace. ‘Still campaigning?’
‘New campaign. Find Owen, make the army mount a rescue mission and bring him home. She’s even been co-opting show tunes.’
Sahar reached out and squeezed Megan’s hand. ‘You’ve got to have hope though.’
Hope. Hope was a lie. Hope didn’t want to let you rest, or give you a moment’s peace. Hope kept you up all night, despair its bedfellow. Hope chipped away at everything else until you were empty inside.
‘Hope hurts, Sahar.’
Luckily, that was when Nora and the others appeared and the subject changed back to the more comfortable ground of the job, the contract and handshakes all round.
As Sahar sorted out drinks for everyone, Megan found herself gazing out of the window, across the lawns towards the trees and the gates beyond. A fox wandered across the lush green grass, looking for all the world like it owned the place. Completely at home, devoid of fear.
Foxfield Hall, she thought.
Well, it fitted.
It didn’t take long to settle in. She knew her way around in a couple of days. The apartment nestled at the back of the hotel, a building that once might have been stables or something similar, Megan supposed. Double doors led out onto a little private patio which she knew she’d easily fill with plants in no time – it caught the sun just right and would make a perfect nursery – and from there out into the gardens themselves. It housed just the two of them, her and Sahar, other staff living locally rather than onsite. Some were agency staff but Foxfield Hall made a concerted effort to hire from the area, Sahar said. It made for better relations.
And for rather a lot of gossip.
The board had big plans for the hotel and grounds, according to Sahar. Or Alan Brooks did anyway. The other three seemed to view their role as stopping him from doing anything too drastic, but he had sunk a fortune into the place. Family money, apparently, as well as the proceeds from stock markets and numerous shady dealings.
Nora Grainger had had a tough time with him. They had past history from before he was married. He was a couple of years older than her and their terrible relationship had ended badly. Sahar speculated he had put her off men for life and Megan had to tell her it didn’t actually work like that. Still, no one liked the way he pushed Nora around. And anyone else who he felt he could get away with bullying.
Local staff were the key to somewhere like Foxfield Hall. Chief among them was Hattie, who ruled the reception with a rod of iron. And she knew everything about everyone.
‘You’ll like her,’ Sahar said. ‘Quite a character. I’m not sure this place would run without her at all.’
According to Sahar, Hattie had all sorts to say about Alan Brooks. She had known his family for years, and the man himself all his life. ‘Hattie’s Nora’s aunt or something. Or cousin. Or… oh, you know, one of those relatives who aren’t actually relatives but might as well be? Like my Auntie Sepideh.’
Megan decided all the politics was a bit much, both locally and at the hotel, and so she focused on the grounds instead. Sahar already had a gardening and building team in place, running them in a tight unit. Mostly men, but that was usual. Thank God they didn’t have a problem with a woman calling the shots.
Her assessment was going to take a while. Once she’d done that they would really get to work. The lawns were easy, and the cottage garden was essentially new work, so they could get stuck into that quickly enough. The trees just needed taking in hand and she could order in as many more as she needed. She’d already designed the little forest path which would pick its way through them and would get the guys started on the hard landscaping for that. Heading into winter was the best time of year to plant new mature trees anyway, dormant and ready for the next spring. So that was all ready to go.
The maze though… the maze was incredible. It had started life as a labyrinth, not originally intended for people to actually get lost in. Labyrinths had an objective, a ceremonial pathway, a route through to the middle, the destination that made the journey have meaning. Mazes were just there to mess with you.
The design was a curling path, winding around through box hedges and yew, passing by feature areas where specimen plants could be displayed, or set with sculptures or water features. Unicursal, they called it. A single path. Or at least that was the idea. It was formal, processional, like a ritual pathway through the land.
While once it might have been a single path, the plant life here had a glorious mind of its own. New openings had formed where none had been intended, and others had closed up entirely. Once in there it wasn’t easy to keep your bearings. On a basic level, the hedges weren’t well kept. They needed regular cutting back and that had obviously lapsed some time ago. Every so often someone had had a go at it with a chainsaw, sure, but that had just compounded the problem.
You had to work with the vegetation, not against it. Megan planned to start that as part of the assessment, just getting it in basic shape and opening it up again. The interior plants were beautiful, bu. . .
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