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Mapmaking was the sisters’ trade, but no one ever came to buy their maps, for they could not be had at any price.
His face was as beautiful as daybreak, his smile as bewitching as midnight. His eyes promised the world, and everything in it.
“Change is a kiss in the dark. A rose in the snow. A wild road on a windy night,” Chance countered. “Monsters live in the dark. Roses die in the snow. Girls get lost on wild roads,” the crone shot back.
“What they said … it isn’t true.” “Then why do they say it?” Isabelle asked quietly.
There is magic in this sad, hard world. A magic stronger than fate, stronger than chance. And it is seen in the unlikeliest of places.
The world conspires in a thousand ways to tell us that we’re not enough, that we’re less than, that life’s one big, long party on the beach and we’re not invited.
