The Maidens

by Alex Michaelides

That’s how it felt. Since Sebastian died, Mariana no longer saw the world in color. Life was muted and gray and far away, behind a veil—behind a mist of sadness.

Tennyson gave in to his grief. He fell apart. For the next seventeen years, he grieved, writing only scraps of poetry—lines, verses, elegies—all

“It’s been over a year since Sebastian died—and it’s not any easier. It still hurts.”