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Marriage was like death. You knew it’d happen eventually, but it wasn’t something to dwell on.
It was the smile of a man who found nothing funny and everything amusing.
It was as if the words they spoke were weaving a kind of net, a net of normalcy and propriety and sanity, around a situation that was anything but.
She was still going somewhere terrible, but she had a hedgehog, dammit.
“Roses have thorns,” she said. “That’s the price of roses. When you start to forget that, that’s when things go wrong.”
Rhea followed, because when your future husband is a mad sorcerer, following a hedgehog sometimes seems like a good option.
I am not curling into a little ball and screaming. I wish someone else were here to be impressed by how much I am not screaming right now.
