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“And how is a miracle different from a spell? Who is to say the saint was not a witch?”
Everyone insists it is her purpose, and it drives her mad, the idea that the shape of her body determines the shape her life must take.
She knows these things, but there are no memories to go with them, and the few she has are like tea bags used too many times, all the flavor fading till it’s just tinted water.
Love. As terrible and bottomless as hunger.
She is not a lily or a rose. Not a flower ready and waiting to be picked.
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.
