“What would become of me?” Those shoulders—the ones she drew so many times, the ones she conjured into being—give only a dismissive shrug. “You will be nothing, my dear,” he says simply. “But it is a kinder nothing than this. Surrender, and I will set you free.” If some part of her wavered, if some small part wanted to give in, it did not last beyond a moment. There is a defiance in being a dreamer.
