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She doesn’t understand. Her family has shown her that love is a lie. It isn’t stone-solid; instead it bends and crumbles away, weak as rusty metal. But she had thought that Schaffa liked her. Schaffa keeps stroking her broken hand. “I love you,” he says. She flinches, and he soothes her with a soft shush in her ear, while his thumb keeps stroking the hand he’s broken.
neither myths nor mysteries can hold a candle to the most infinitesimal spark of hope.
This is why she hates Alabaster: not because he is more powerful, not even because he is crazy, but because he refuses to allow her any of the polite fictions and unspoken truths that have kept her comfortable, and safe, for years.
