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.

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

“There was a cat that lived in the stable,” says the countess, “when Andrés was young.” She leans in close, too close, till María can see the flecks of food between the woman’s teeth. “It was a decent-looking creature, white and brown, and my youngest son has always had a fondness for such things. So we left it be. Until one day, when it had ginger kittens. Such an awful shade.” The countess pauses, and María thinks of leaning in, of lowering her voice, of telling the countess how her son cannot take his eyes off her hair, how he likes to wrap whole lengths around his hand every time he fucks her. Instead she asks, “What did you do?” “What must be done with wretched things. I put them in a sack, and drowned them.” María knows the words are meant to make her feel small, knows that she should go ahead, pretend to shrink beneath them. But she doesn’t. “Well then,” she says brightly, “good thing I am not with child yet.” She reaches for her wine. “And when I’m blessed with heirs, I’ll not ask you to bathe them.”

Maria is that bitch. I’m obsessed