Her conviction needed no logic, only years of observing her. She knew Sylvia. Her tells and her fears. The way she wrote and how it exactly mirrored the overexuberant way she spoke. The way she took her tea—with a teeth-rotting amount of sugar—and her favorite color—amethyst, not purple—and the tenderest spots to dig the knife of her words. She was irritatingly forthright. When she was happy, she laughed. When she was sad, she wept. She wouldn’t know subtlety if it threw a dueling gauntlet at her feet. No, Sylvia was not made for cold-blooded calculation. She was too loud, too earnest, too
...more
yes i, too, know my rivals favorite things.
