The Bone Houses

by Emily Lloyd-Jones

And in her darkest moments, she feared she did not know how to live.

Turned out, the dead were like chickens. They didn’t need heads to blunder about. Knees were a much more practical target.

Nothing stayed buried forever.

Beautiful things were often poisonous or useless—

“She did say she lives with another,” Ellis pointed out. “Her mother,” said Ryn. “Likely a frail old woman.” “Clearly,” said Ellis, “you have not spent time near older women. I’ve met ones who could bring down a dragon with a glare and a sharp word.”

worse, advice.” “Advice?” “Herbs to try,” he said. “Stretches. Leeches, one time. People cannot simply let me be. They have to find a way to fix me.”

Ellis grimaced. “For once in this trip, I’d like a plan that doesn’t involve bodies.” “You shouldn’t have befriended a gravedigger, then,” said Ryn. “Should’ve taken up with a baker or a blacksmith.”

The anticipation of the loss hurts nearly as much as the loss itself. You find yourself trying to hold on to every detail, because you’ll never have them again.”

To love someone was to lose them. Whether it was to illness or injury or the passage of time. It was a risk, to love someone. To do so with the full knowledge that they’d leave someday. Then to let go of them, when they did.