This didn’t make sense to me. All my life, love was something I reached for. It was a scarcity, an unknown. Sometimes it was there, and other times it wasn’t. Sometimes it felt in my control—like if I behaved a certain way, it would be given. Other times it was unpredictable, doled out in a system of intermittent reinforcement. The love that Snow showed me wasn’t choppy, with tumultuous ebbs and flows. It was steady and reliable, a gentle river that went on and on. It made no sense and yet it was there—I could feel it like a charge of magick. But it was not a desire I could wield or influence,
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