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Albert, it seemed, had forgotten that his history might be a legacy of power, but hers was a legacy of resistance.
Meanwhile, across the country, a certain innkeeper was about to discover that when you hold tight to the little magic you find, when years go by and the world loses much of its colour and still you refuse to forget the magic, magic will go out of its way to show you that it remembers you too.
Your magic knew exactly who you were. That’s why your spell was a shield, not a sword.”
that. They didn’t talk about the way it messed with their heads to belong to this country, at least on paper, and still know from experience that that white flag with a saint’s red cross on it was something to be afraid of.
“I was loud and excited and too much of everything as a child, but I learned very quickly that it was much easier and that my parents liked me much better when I wasn’t so me. So I did as I was told, and I was careful about what I said and what I did and how I behaved, and eventually, I didn’t even have to try very hard anymore. I put so much cold, empty space around myself that the Tin Man thing wasn’t exactly unexpected.”
she couldn’t help thinking that you could only get out of a snow globe by shattering the glass, and shattered glass always hurt.
This is the life I wanted. This life of contentment and unexpected excitement, of little everyday joys, where I don’t just get to be myself but also get to be embraced as myself. It’s miraculous.”
The dying wasn’t what mattered. Unfurling your scorched feathers from the ashes and getting up again. Growing. Staying. That was the part that really mattered.
