Bury Our Bones in the Midnight Soil

by V.E. Schwab

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.

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

Only later did her mother say that not all sins were boulders, that most in fact were more like pebbles.

“And how is a miracle different from a spell? Who is to say the saint was not a witch?”

“Careful. In nature, beauty is a warning. The pretty ones are often poisonous.”

Nothing fits, even if it’s fitted, because it’s not really about the size of the body or how it fills the clothes, but how much space it takes up in the world.

“One can be alone without feeling lonely,” she muses. “One can feel lonely without being alone.”

“Bury my bones in the midnight soil,” he begins, infusing the words with the air of theater. “Plant them shallow and water them deep. And in my place will grow a feral rose.” He leans down to Renata and cups her face, running a thumb across her bottom lip. “Soft red petals hiding sharp white teeth.”

“Fire, steel, wood, it does not matter. Destroy our hearts, and we are destroyed as well. So, I suggest you learn to guard yours better.”

“Time is a funny thing,” she said. “It goes racing by right under our noses. I close my eyes and you are eight and climbing trees to get the highest fruit, perching up among the birds to eat your prize. And then I blink, and here you are, all grown, and I don’t know how.”