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Alistair, who rarely drank more than a single glass of brandy or wine, only knew that his insides felt warm and his mind mercifully clear of his usual cares. This, he suspected, was how everyone else felt all the damned time.
Shame was a luxury of the rich, as far as Charity could tell.
Shame wasn’t contagious. His disapproval couldn’t make her think less of herself.
A changeling. She liked the sound of that, as silly as it was. She had been in between for so long. Neither man nor
Love, or something near enough to it. It would end in heartbreak, but in Charity’s experience it generally did.
This was what money and power were for: not to hoard up in the name of prudence and security, but to spend and use to take care of the people who needed it.
To be capable of grief. To be capable of having one’s heart broken. What astoundingly useless capacities. What a shocking oversight on the part of the creator.
