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“Know your truth, not your story,”
“Rich people love books.” They both laughed. What books held, neither of them knew.
She was not a creature of courage, but she was one of spite.
He’s not seeking any wisdom from me, nor would I be inclined to give it to him.”
The only question you should be asking me is: What do I need to do to make this sunny future possible?”
“We’ll start with a story, then,” Xenobia said. “It can be a salve for your pain. But you must build a house for this story in your heart, and keep it. It will be yours then. If you listen.
Perhaps the pirates and the witches were right to worship the sea. The sea did not die. The sea was no man.
Can you open the gates of your mind and welcome these stories into your truth?”
“Today, I will tell this stone: Once you were a part of something great. Once you were part of a mountain, and you were happy, and you were important. When you fell, you thought that you would never be happy, not ever again, never be important, not ever again. But you were wrong, sweet stone, for now you are a part of a great pot of nourishing stew. Like the mountain, you will give life. Like the mountain, you will be great. Like the mountain, you will have purpose. You will give sustenance to those who had none, and that will make you great again.”
This is what wealth must feel like, she thought. Like a warm belly full of food, and knowing that still there is more should you desire it.
She did not know how to pray — she never had. But what was prayer except the request for a better story? And so she prayed.
Magic was real, and she was in love. These truths held hands in Evelyn’s mind, entwined.
“You are my love and my equal, and we will see each other through this.
“I have loved you.” Evelyn smiled, a quirk of her tremulous lips. “That is enough.”
“There is no comfort except for time,” Rake said. “But I’ll stand by you until you ask me to leave.”
“You’re home now,” Evelyn said. She did not need to say: You’re home because you’re with me. She did not need to say: I will be your home.
