The Book of Flora (The Road to Nowhere, #3)

by Meg Elison

And there is one thing I know is true in this world: only what is remembered survives. Only what is written has a chance in the future. People forget. Rivers rise. Stories and songs are snuffed out every time some town takes a fever or loses to a man with a little power. Destruction is common. Creation is rare.

Now I see that if I do not carry my past with me, it will wrap itself around my ankles and drag me down. There is no living without it. There is no pretending I am not the sum of all these things.

The life I live now is beautiful, but no one on Bambritch is entitled to the labor or the body of another. That is our one unshakable rule.

We don’t stay free because of something we did once. We stay free because we fight our way free every day.

We are our own. If we cannot decide what happens inside us, we are slaves.

Life is not always increased by birth. I just think . . . I think no one should have to face that. It’s a hard decision, but no woman can be forced to bear. If we do that, we’re no better than slavers.”

“Guevedoces,” says my translator. “They are born girls, but then they turn into boys after they are twelve or thirteen summers old.”

This is the work that women do. We keep the fire of civilization burning, by collecting and protecting stories. It’s what we’ve always done.”

Without any science, they match like to like and assume that these charms and nonsense will work. It’s that kind of ignorance that allows plague to spread, because they won’t listen to people like Alice who talk about germ theory, sterilization, or even properly washing their hands.