How to Seal Your Own Fate (Castle Knoll Files #2)

by Kristen Perrin

January is sharp, icy edges and dead earth, and it will remind you over and over again that in certain conditions, nothing survives.

He hands the thermos back to me, and as I take another sip from it, I try not to think about how the casual sharing of a drink is strangely intimate.

But in avoiding the “charmers,” as Mum always called my dad, I’ve found those guys who like to poke holes in my personality at every turn. In the past, I’ve dated such serious men—the ones who, when they tell me that my excitement over collecting stickers is infantile, I listen to. If I’m too excited over something simple, I’m not acting my age. If I’m too deep in my own thoughts, I’m not fun enough.

Something that I’m aware of about myself is that I lack the ability to control my facial expressions, no matter how hard I try. If someone is observant, they can watch every thought, emotion, and reaction flit across my features.

My mind was trying on men like I’d try on shoes in a department store, which wasn’t like me at all.

I’d never thought of Archie that way—a year ago he’d been Rose’s boyfriend, and that just makes a man shift into being a rather neutral sort of person. When you know your best friend has been involved with someone, you don’t think about how surprisingly strong their hands are or the genuineness of their smile, no matter how long it’s been since their relationship ended.

His expression turned playful, which lately I’ve noticed is the only mask he hides behind in any convincing way.

“There are glances of hatred that stab and raise no cry of murder,” he said, and bit into the custard tart. “Where is that quote from?” I asked. “You need to spend more time in the library,” he said, then continued to chew quietly, one corner of his mouth pulled up in a smirk. “Are you trying to say that you can be angry at something but not have it dictate your actions?” I prodded. He gave me a meaningful look. “It’s just something I think we should both try to remember.” Then he dusted off his fingers, hopped down, and sauntered toward the back door to the kitchen. “It’s George Eliot,” he said, turning back to me.

Migration is the art of moving with the seasons, an act of survival that is both beautiful and circular. Indeed, spring is often marked in our minds by the return of birdsong, signaling that the seasonal pattern of leaving and returning has been completed once more.

When you’re a woman, people talk to you your whole life in terms of when you’ll have children, never if. God forbid they let you make up your own mind and keep your future out of their business.

“Luck is a nice explanation for how life isn’t fair but sometimes has good things in it. Fate—now, that’s just an excuse to give up control and let some invisible force drive things.