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What is a person, if not the marks they leave behind? She has learned to step between the thorny weeds, but there are some cuts that cannot be avoided—a memory, a photograph, a name.
Her father’s work is beautiful, the wood smooth where his hands are rough, delicate where he is large.
“The old gods may be great, but they are neither kind nor merciful. They are fickle, unsteady as moonlight on water, or shadows in a storm. If you insist on calling them, take heed: be careful what you ask for, be willing to pay the price.”
And when she does look up, her gaze always goes to the edge of town. “A dreamer,” scorns her mother. “A dreamer,” mourns her father. “A dreamer,” warns Estele. Still, it does not seem such a bad word. Until Adeline wakes up.
Stories are a way to preserve one’s self. To be remembered. And to forget.
She will learn in time that she can lie, and the words will flow like wine, easily poured, easily swallowed. But the truth will always stop at the end of her tongue. Her story silenced for all but herself.
But it is a lonely thing, to be forgotten. To remember when no one else does.
If a person cannot leave a mark, do they exist?
Every day is amber, and she is the fly trapped inside. No way to think in days or weeks when she lives in moments. Time begins to lose its meaning—and yet, she has not lost track of time.
Henry loves his sister, he does. But Muriel’s always been like strong perfume. Better in small doses. And at a distance.
Nervous, like tomorrow, a word for things that have not happened yet. A word for futures, when for so long all she’s had are presents.
“Small places make for small lives. And some people are fine with that. They like knowing where to put their feet. But if you only walk in other people’s steps, you cannot make your own way. You cannot leave a mark.”
Henry casts her a sidelong look. He has a way of almost smiling. It’s like light behind a curtain, the edge of the sun behind clouds, more a promise than an actual thing, but the warmth shines through.
Whatever this is, she knows it will not last. She has lived too long to think it chance, been cursed too long to think it fate.
But ideas are so much wilder than memories, so much faster to take root.”
He is full of roots, while she has only branches.
“art is about ideas. And ideas are wilder than memories. They’re like weeds, always finding their way up.”
He has asked the wrong god for the wrong thing, and now he is enough because he is nothing. He is perfect, because he isn’t there.
“Do not sulk, simply because you chose poorly.” “Did I though?” she counters. “After all, I am free.” “And forgotten.”
Memories are stiff, but thoughts are freer things. They throw out roots, they spread and tangle, and come untethered from their source. They are clever, and stubborn, and perhaps—perhaps—they are in reach.
“The vexing thing about time,” he says, “is that it’s never enough. Perhaps a decade too short, perhaps a moment. But a life always ends too soon.”
“Want is for children. If this were want, I would be rid of you by now. I would have forgotten you centuries ago,” he says, a bitter loathing in his voice. “This is need. And need is painful but patient. Do you hear me, Adeline? I need you. As you need me. I love you, as you love me.”
That time always ends a second before you’re ready.
