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In that moment, as she stared into the teacups’ darkening water, she hated herself fiercely, for saddling him with the burden of loving her.
It was not just the soul of the nation she had wounded. It was her own heart, her own mind, all of it going to ruin now, because there was nothing left that she could love without a footnote or an asterisk.
“Small-minded traditionalists always reject what they don’t understand.”
They were not safe. Perhaps they never would be. But the walls had crumbled and they were free.
She would need books and fairy tales to build a seawall around her, to hold against the vicious, rising tide. And she would need a hand, a voice, a promise—something from the outside to pull her from the darkness.
