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Of course, the hiding is how they’re caught, most often.
We learned, after the old world died, not to put our faith in wood pulp or motherboards; the only archive that survives is the one we carry with us.
She came to us as any apocalypse does: slowly at first, and then all at once.
She knew me then, at the beginning of ourselves, and she knew me now, here at the end, when she did not even know herself.
I couldn’t stop smiling—the euphoric, hysteric smile of a woman who has been lying on her lover’s grave and has just felt the earth move beneath her.
Why do people change, Sir John? Because they are cursed, pursued, poisoned, trapped, under siege. Because they have to.
At six, I’d thought love was a full belly; at sixteen, I’d thought it was wildflowers and gooseberries and Mayapple’s mouth on mine. At seventeen, I knew better: love is whatever you’re willing to kill for.
Nothing grows on a grave while you’re standing on it.
But she’d been willing to kill for me, and so she must have loved me, after all. As I loved May, as Sir John loved his wife, as God loved the world: with blood on our hands.
