Bury Our Bones in the Midnight Soil

by V.E. Schwab

To the ones who hunger— for love, for time, or simply to be free

Bury my bones in the midnight soil, plant them shallow and water them deep, and in my place will grow a feral rose, soft red petals hiding sharp white teeth.

“I need no wings,” she says with a smirk. “I am a witch.”

“Did you know,” she would say brightly, “that sometimes I think of the cemetery plot where you will lie, beneath all that dirt and stone, and it brings me joy. And if by some unlucky spot I ever get with child, I will take them there, and let them frolic on your bones.”

She is a flame in the dark, and the night is full of moths.

“Those grown in the midnight soil are never alone.”

“We are the roses that grew in the midnight soil,” he says, eyes bright as candles now. “Our thorns are sharp enough to prick. We are watered by life, and with its bounty, our roots grow deep, our blooms unmarred by age. In fact, for us, time fortifies, renders us more noble. We are no monster, no mean thing. We are nature’s finest flower.”

Sabine has walked the earth long enough to know that not all flowers grow well in the garden. Some thrive, and others wither. And a wretched few must be dug up before they ruin everything.

“And for all that happened after, for everything she did to me, I still remember what it felt like, to be noticed, to be wanted, to be seen. I wanted you to feel that, too.”