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FOR YOU, DEAREST READER
These violent delights have violent ends And in their triumph die, like fire and powder, Which, as they kiss, consume. —Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet
Straight-faced, Juliette replied, “You know me. Running around. Living life. Committing arson.”
After four years away, Juliette’s memories of the people she had left behind no longer aligned with who they had become. Nothing of her memory had withstood the test of time.
Juliette had met plenty of men like him in America: men who assumed they had the right to go wherever they wished because the world had been built to favor their civilized etiquette. That sort of confidence knew no bounds.
Seeing her again was like finding the corpse beneath the floorboards to not only have resurrected, but to be pointing a gun right at his head.
Roma was not afraid. He only feared the power of others. Monsters and things that walked the night were strong, but they were not powerful. There was a difference.
xiǎolóngbāo
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Roma Montagov had not changed. The Roma who had loved her. The Roma who had betrayed her.
“These days, Juliette,” he said, low and warily, “the most dangerous people are the powerful white men who feel as if they have been slighted.”
The men, meanwhile, could be as tan, as fat, and as old as they wished. It would have no bearing on what people thought of them.
“She’s too kindhearted for her own good,” Rosalind remarked. “Let her be,” Juliette replied. “Too many kind hearts turn cold every day.”
