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?”

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?”

“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.”

Love. As terrible and bottomless as hunger.

“The fact is, whether death takes you all at once, or steals pieces over time, in the end there is no such thing as immortality. Some of us just die slower than the rest.”