Boy of Chaotic Making (Whimbrel House, #3)

by Charlie N. Holmberg

Figuring out what to eat for dinner, unwinding plot holes in stories, deducing how to best confess his feelings for his housekeeper . . . all had been accomplished on purposeful strolls.

Shaving was such a pain. If Hulda allowed it, he’d become a hermit on Blaugdone Island and grow out a beard to his chest. Anything past the nipple line would be excessive.

“Had a horse once. Loved that beast. He was fast and noble and everything good. Couldn’t do a thing for him when he broke his leg.”

She smelled like lilacs. Lilacs and worry, which were scents that didn’t mix well. Perhaps she wore the lilac to mask the worry.

“A man who can hear the thoughts of the creatures around him can never truly step out of their world.”

It was just an off-white sheet, but if he stared long enough, there seemed to be subtle twinkles in it, like the entirety of heaven was covered in a thick coating of salt.

“I mean, I’m not always brave. A lot of times I have to pretend. But pretending is kind of like practice. And the more you practice, the easier it gets.

Darkness, I mean. It’s just a part of the world. Part of life. It makes sense to me now. And my darkness . . . that’s a piece of my story, like a chapter in one of your books. I’m not supposed to tear it out. It makes me stronger. It adds to what I’m facing now, and what I’ll face in the future. It’s part of me, just like my legs or my magic or my mind.

The older couple was . . . Earl. Earl and Earless—wait, no—Countess of . . . North . . . folk.

She was still overcoming her allergy to expressing herself.