Bury Our Bones in the Midnight Soil

by V.E. Schwab

“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.”

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

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.

and she’s heard a hundred songs and sayings about how the right person can make the whole world disappear, but the world is still there, raging around them, only it’s background noise, it’s set dressing, and for once in her life she is standing

“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.”

Perhaps that is what makes them monsters—the fact their love is marked by violence, and death, and yet. And yet. She would not change a thing.

This woman, who is a force of nature. Who bends the world instead of bending for it. Who looks at Charlotte with such open want, and touches her without an ounce of shame. Who never steals a kiss, but instead lays claim to it, as if it is already hers. Sabine, who proves a master gardener. And Charlotte, so eager to be tended. So grateful she has found a hand that makes her bloom.

Why does Charlotte stay? That is like asking—why stay inside a house on fire? Easy to say when you are standing on the street, a safe distance from the flames. Harder when you are still inside, convinced you can douse the blaze before it spreads, or rushing room to room, trying to save what you love before it burns.

“You are my heartbeat. My feral rose. I laid you down in the midnight soil. I watered you until you bloomed. It