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.

snap a photo now and you wouldn’t know about the cluttered head and anxious heart, all you’d see is those blue-green eyes made brighter by the surrounding dark, the pale blond hair made wild by the humid night.

Must is a word that has always made María bristle.

The countess is a crow, collecting shiny bits of talk, and the other birds in town flock to her like magpies with their offerings.

We are no monster, no mean thing. We are nature’s finest flower.”

For human senses, the scene must be a feast. For hers, it is cacophony.

“Death comes, and sometimes it is kind, and often it is cruel, and very rarely it is welcome. But it comes, all the same.”