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His books always required further knowledge and intense study, while Justine was an illuminated manuscript—beautiful and treasured and instantly understandable.
Before the woman who cared for me with fists and bruises.
Justine held my gaze as though I were a rope pulling her in from drowning.
I might have been his, but he was mine.
She was pretty in a way that seemed imminently practical. Her beauty was not a performance or a necessity; it was simply part of her.
I had become this girl in order to survive, but the longer I lived in her body, the easier it was to simply be her.
“She is always concerned with the beauty and poetry of the world, but I want to know what lies beneath every surface.
Henry had asked if I was happy. I was safe, and that was better than happy.
How privileged of him to be able to value his own feelings over the safety of others because he himself had never known what it was to be afraid.
But the unknown beckoned, promising rest from pain. Rest from sickness. Rest from the endless striving and manipulating and working, working, working just to keep my place in the world.
“You know, Elizabeth, I think you could convince Winter to leave early and give all his territory to Spring if only you could talk to him.”
He was the text I had devoted my life to studying.
