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.

But María has known, all her life, that she is not meant for common paths, for humble houses and modest men. If she must walk a woman’s road, then it will take her somewhere new.

When to be the predator, and when to play the part of prey.

“You will learn, it is better to bend than to break.” María stared into the hearth. “Why should I be the one who bends?”

If her sister Catty were here, she’d nag Alice for being a barnacle, pry her off and fling her back into the social tide,

But that’s not why she stands out in the rain. It’s because there’s a moment, pressed beneath the weighted blanket of the storm, when her body stops fighting, when all the voices inside her finally go quiet, and her shoulders loosen and her lungs unclench and her skin goes numb and the line between girl and world gets smudged, and she is washed away. Made new.