The Missing of Clairdelune (The Mirror Visitor, #2)

by Christelle Dabos

“I think you should come,” Thorn replied after a moment’s reflection. “Alone, preferably.” “Excuse me?” With the poor reception and crackling on the line, Ophelia couldn’t dismiss the possibility that she’d misheard. “I’m arranging a meeting with you. An official meeting, between future husband and future wife. Can you still hear me?” “Yes, yes, I can hear you,” she stammered. “But really, why see each other? I’ve just told you that . . .” “We simply can’t allow ourselves to be enemies,” cut in Thorn. “You’re making my life difficult with your resentment; it’s imperative that we become reconciled. I’m not permitted to enter the Gynaeceum; meet me at the Treasury, insult me, slap me, smash a plate over my head if you feel like it, and then let’s never speak of it again. Name your day. This Thursday would suit me. Let’s say . . .” The sound of hastily turned pages could be heard in the ear trumpet. “Between eleven-thirty and twelve. Shall I put you down on my schedule?”

“You wanted me to be honest with you. You will thus learn that you are not just a pair of hands to me. And I don’t give a damn whether people find me suspect, as long as I am not so in your eyes. You will return this to me when I have kept all my promises,” he grumbled, holding his watch out to Ophelia without noticing her stunned expression. “And if you still doubt me in the future, just read it.

“Would you prefer to hear me say that I would like to be your reason for staying? I doubt it.”

It was always the same with her: the heavier her heart, the emptier her head.

Ridicule has never killed me.”

Who is God? What does God want? What does God look like?

He is scared of becoming what God expects of him, and he is also scared of never becoming it.

it. She had lied to herself, she understood the reason why, but it was over now.

“Try your dears,” the liftboy repeated. “I mean, dry your tears. What’s done is done and what must be done will be done.”