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Books, she has found, are a way to live a thousand lives—or to find strength in a very long one.
“Not tonight,” she says. The rise isn’t worth the fall.
“I grant you immortality. And you spend your evenings eating bonbons in other people’s beds. I imagined more for you than this.”
The darkness claimed he’d given her freedom, but really, there is no such thing for a woman, not in a world where they are bound up inside their clothes, and sealed inside their homes, a world where only men are given leave to roam.
when he kisses her, he tastes like salt, and summer.
These days, Addie steals books as eagerly as food, a vital piece of daily nourishment.
“I can’t hold a pen. I can’t tell a story. I can’t wield a weapon, or make someone remember. But art,” she says with a quieter smile, “art is about ideas. And ideas are wilder than memories. They’re like weeds, always finding their way up.” “But no photographs. No film.”
“But isn’t it wonderful,” she says, “to be an idea?”
“I am a god of promise, Adeline, and wars make terrible patrons.”
“Do not mistake this—any of it—for kindness, Adeline.” His eyes go bright with mischief. “I simply want to be the one who breaks you.”
“It was just a fight. It’s not the end of the world. It’s certainly not the end of us.”
Every inch of her wants to have it, to keep it, to stare at the image like Narcissus in the pond.
And yet, she cannot help but wonder. If all the things that Addie has loved, she loved because of them—or him.
She looks up. It has begun to snow again, lightly now, flakes falling like stars.
