Bury Our Bones in the Midnight Soil

by V.E. Schwab

Born restless, her father used to say. Which was fine for a son, but bad for a daughter.

Soft red petals hiding sharp white teeth.

“It doesn’t have to be. After all, loneliness is just like us,” says Ezra. “It has to be invited in.”

Catty, who’s barely passing sixth year, and seems hell-bent on mystifying the counselor assigned to help her find a path because they don’t get that all she wants is to be discovered, to be seen.

Alice. Scottish. Gentle. Tastes like grief.

If they could just stay, pressed in the amber of that moment, maybe everything would be okay.