A Conjuring of Light (Shades of Magic, #3)

by V.E. Schwab

You need not shield me from the darkness. It cannot hurt me anymore. Nothing can.”

Because caring was a thing with claws. It sank them in, and didn’t let go. Caring hurt more than a knife to the leg, more than a few broken ribs, more than anything that bled or broke and healed again. Caring didn’t break you clean. It was a bone that didn’t set, a cut that wouldn’t close.

“Love and loss,” he said, “are like a ship and the sea. They rise together. The more we love, the more we have to lose. But the only way to avoid loss is to avoid love. And what a sad world that would be.”

When it came to parting ways, they sometimes said vas ir, which meant in peace, but more often they chose to say anoshe—until another day.