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They don’t give lighters to arsonists.
“You’ve got to work on being less critical, Alex. One day, you’re going to piss off too many lab partners. They’ll form a mob and burn you at the stake using all the papers you’ve ever aced as kindling.”
“I remember the attic of your house. The way the sun shone gold through the slats in the windows. The dust on the floor and the crowns we wore. I remember your throne, the Wicker Throne, and mine, the Wooden Throne. I remember sitting on them, hands clasped between us. You were always the better king.”
The boars and crows and things with fur and talons clawed at the shore’s edge, angry that they’d been outmatched. August couldn’t see them—he never could, no matter how many times they played this game—but he knew they were there. By the quiver of Jack’s hand, he knew to fear the shore.
Water dripped off the branch and glittered in the setting sun, and August gazed up at the Wicker King. So fierce and proud, chin jutting out so bravely, that August couldn’t help but lift his branch beside him. Jack had grinned at the sight. They were stronger together; they were always stronger together.
“It’s not weak. My mom once told me that being alone makes you feel weaker every day, even if you’re not,” he said quietly. “But it’s not as bad if you’re with other people who are alone, too. We can hold each other up like a card tower.”
He is my only constant. My fixed point.”
“Do they still sing songs of my victory?” August choked. “They do. And they’ll crescendo like beacons to the farthest reaches. With every new breath of life that forms in a world without darkness that came at the price of your hands and your mind.”
