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.”

She drinks, and feels like she is falling, dropping, not into the dark this time, but into light. It blooms behind her eyes, unspools through every vein, a sun-glow warmth.

She swallows. “Isn’t it lonely?” “It doesn’t have to be. After all, loneliness is just like us,” says Ezra. “It has to be invited in.”