The Knight and the Moth (The Stonewater Kingdom, #1)

by Rachel Gillig

“I wouldn’t worry over it. Knights are shooting stars, Six. They come and go. But you and me, our sisterhood of Diviners—we’re the moon.” She smiled. “We’re eternal.”

“Which is more intricate?” he mused. “The designs of men, trying to reach gods, or that of gods, trying to reach men?” My hammer collided with a chunk of granite. “What is either to the intricacies of women, who reach both?”

“It’s not true, you know,” he said. “You don’t have to be good, or useful, for someone to care about you.”

I thought Maude entirely beautiful in that moment, her green, charcoal-rimmed eyes catching sunlight, the lines around her mouth—the crow’s feet around her eyes—deepening as she spoke.

But Rory settled in time. Got stronger. Smarter. Meaner, too. Or maybe he just stopped thinking mistreatment was something he deserved.” “Sounds like neither of them would be where they are without you.” “They’d have found their way. They’re a good balance, those two. Benji wants to be resilient like Rory, and Rory wants to feel like the kingdom is worth changing the way Benji does.” “Or maybe they both want to be just like you.”

“Are you embarrassed to be bad at something?” Rory asked. “Or just embarrassed to be bad at it in front of me?” “Fuck you.”

I was losing my faith in everything. But the two of us meeting… it felt almost divine.

I looked up at the sky, the thousands of stars stitched upon a vast purple tapestry, reveling in the sensation of being held up in water and not pressed down.

The gargoyle was back. He landed with a huff, sticking his nose up at Rory and Benji and Maude in particular. But when he reached me, all haughtiness vanished. He looked up with an open face. In his hands, resting in the beds of his palms— My hammer and chisel. “It is important for a squire to carry a knight’s weapons,” he said, the words so stoic I wondered if he’d practiced them on the flight back. “I will carry them for you, Bartholomew. I will shoulder any weight you give me.”

“I have no use for stories.” My eyes grew unfocused behind my shroud. “Tragedy and desolation are right here with me.” “Yes.” He went back to humming to himself. “But I am here, too, Bartholomew.”

“I am a battlefield of admiration.” He nodded at the horizon. “I cannot decide which I like best. The sunrise, or the sunset.

“Am I all that you imagined?” I said, looking down at her. “Or am I so much more?”

To my readers. Oh, how I adore you. You followed me into the mist, and now you walk with me through moonlight, into hamlets and over stones and past gowan flowers. I cannot express how much gratitude I have for each and every one of you—words simply fail me. Somehow, that feels just right.