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I have lived most of my life as a devotee of the philosophy that a man should not see two sevens in one day,
It’s true—Felicity’s not a broken horse. A finishing school will kick the spirit straight out of her, and while I’ve never been particularly fond of my sister, the thought of a quiet, simpering, cross-stitching, tea-sipping Felicity feels like a slash through a painting.
“Cups are the suit of passion and love. The heart suit. Here, the eight of cups means leaving things behind. The heavy things that cling to us and weigh us down, but we grow accustomed to familiar weights and cannot let them go.”
“In the east,” she says after a time, her gaze still downcast, “there is a tradition known as kintsukuroi. It is the practice of mending broken ceramic pottery using lacquer dusted with gold and silver and other precious metals. It is meant to symbolize that things can be more beautiful for having been broken.”
Because Percy goes so deep inside me, like veins of gold grown into granite.
God bless the book people for their boundless knowledge absorbed from having words instead of friends.
Love may be a grand thing, but goddamn if it doesn’t take up more than its fair share of space inside a man.
My heart makes a reckless vault, flinging itself against the base of my throat so that it’s suddenly hard to breathe around it. I’m desperate not to let all my stupid hope fill the silence between us but it’s filtering in anyway, like water running through the canyons that longing has spent years carving. “I don’t . . . I don’t think I dare.”
It is remarkable how much courage it takes to kiss someone, even when you are almost certain that person would very much like to be kissed by you. Doubt will knock you from the sky every time.
Pain and ecstasy live tight-knit in my heart.
We are not broken things, neither of us. We are cracked pottery mended with lacquer and flakes of gold, whole as we are, complete unto each other. Complete and worthy and so very loved.
