The Winter of the Witch (Winternight Trilogy, #3)

by Katherine Arden

Magic is forgetting the world was ever other than as you willed it.

“She was as wild as the sea,” he rejoined. “And full, like the sea, of mysteries.”

“And yet, I will think of the future,” Vasya retorted. “To remind me that the present is not forever. One day I may see my brother Alyosha again, and my sister Irina. I might have a home of my own, a place and a purpose, a victory. What is the present without the future?”

“I am a witch,” said Vasya. Blood was running down her hand now, spoiling her grip. “I have plucked snowdrops at Midwinter, died at my own choosing, and wept for a nightingale. Now I am beyond prophecy.”

“Love is for those who know the griefs of time, for it goes hand in hand with loss. An eternity, so burdened, would be a torment. And yet—” He broke off, drew breath. “Yet what else to call it, this terror and this joy?”

“It is not for men and women to presume what the Lord wishes. That way lies evil, when men put themselves too high, saying, I know what God wants, for it is also what I want.

“If you spend all your days bearing the burden of unforgotten wrongs you will only wound yourself.”

“You shouldn’t have told them I was a girl. Then they might have believed that I was dangerous.”