A Grave Robbery (Veronica Speedwell, #9)

by Deanna Raybourn

Memory is an unreliable, meretricious hussy, and I have always found that setting down events whilst they are fresh is the surest defence against her depredations.

“Of losing that which I have come to realise I cannot live without. But I do not want a small and stifled version of you. I want you—in all your intrepid and audacious glory. I want you just as you are, the entirety of your chaos and your wildness. You are the whirlwind I did not know I needed, but now that you are here, I will not be the one to ask you to be anything different than exactly as you are. More than anyone, I ought to understand that nature cannot be denied. And your nature is tumult.”