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Kindle Notes & Highlights
by
Sara Wolf
Read between
October 29 - November 8, 2022
Seawhisper chimes in. “If we want the prince as our Heartless, we’ll need to set a very pretty trap. And you’re the perfect bait!” “P-Pretty,” I sputter. “As in, pretty irritating? Or pretty loudmouthed?” “Pretty as in… Well, you’ve got a nice face,” Seawhisper says, eyes nearing my chest. “Among…other things.” “You’ve got to be kidding me. You chose me because of my—” “According to our information, he has a type, all right?” Seawhisper throws her hands up. “And you fit it!” “Listen, I’m flattered, but—”
When your chosen based on your, ahm, “qualities”
When Heartless consume something that isn’t raw flesh, it’s digested instantly and painfully by the magic inside us, and our bodies purge the contamination the only way they know how—with tears of blood.
That's some vampiric shit
“when I asked her why she brought me the bandits? She said, ‘Because I thought that’s what all humans want. Revenge.’” I put my hands between my knees, then pull them out. That’s not how a lady sits. I press my knees together instead, holding my head high and my shoulders wide in a pale mockery of Y’shennria’s perfect posture. Her hazel gaze is fixed on me, and I stare back, the old, bitter glaze of regret settling. I try a smile, because I know I must look terrible. It’s hollow on my lips. “And she was right.”
mood
“Old God’s tit!” I plunge my hands into the smooth silk, rubbing it against my cheek. “Did you really get this for me, Auntie?” “A lady doesn’t swear.” Y’shennria sniffs. “And she certainly doesn’t call me ‘auntie.’” “But that’s what you are, right? My auntie. Auntie, auntie, auntie.”
Zera is my spirit animal
a simple sword drives the prince away,” I fire back, “I can’t imagine what my personality might do.”
“Simply that our pain breeds hate, and our hate makes us all do terrible things.”
A hard pit of hate begins to burn in me. It’s an old hate, a familiar hate—the same hate that drove me to tear the bandits apart. Hate is dangerous. This city’s reminded me of that much.
Zera will fit perfectly under Darth Vader guidance go become a sith
“Don’t,” he says. “She could hurt you.” “He’s right,” I agree lightly. “Never trust strangers. They’re sometimes mean and oftentimes smelly. And occasionally, they’ll even call you a hypocrite.” “You are one,” he insists. “Oh, I know. But that doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt to hear.”
“Sometimes, Sir Whisper, the choices are made for you, and there’s nothing you can do except make up for them.”
“I’d love to, but I can’t. I’ve got something to do. And if I left now, I’d hate myself. There are lots of things in life I can live with—world hunger, plagues, my terrible bedhead, the inevitable end of civilization as we know it—but I just can’t stand hating myself.”
“We all get a little uncomfortable when our value is reduced to our physical appearance,” he says patiently.
“And you must know, too, that the hunger isn’t you. You must never confuse its evil for your own thoughts and feelings. I remember vividly that was the worst part of being Heartless—thinking that shadow was part of my own soul.”
Fate has never once shied away from the opportunity to take a massive shit on my life, and this time is no exception.
“What’s worse, Reginall—to be a monster, or to make monsters?”
“Okay! That’s it!” I throw my hands up. “I’ve decided you have exactly three seconds to start being nice to me.” “Three whole seconds.” Malachite whistles. “You’d better get on it quick, Lucien.” Lucien rolls his eyes. “Shall I have her hanged for daring to tell me what to do?” “You’d better bury me deep,” I threaten playfully. “Or I’ll haunt you for the rest of my life.” “Tempting,” Lucien drawls. “But I’ll pass. I can barely stand the way you haunt me now.” “Romantically haunt, like in a bard’s tale,” I ascertain. “No.” “Yes,” I correct. “No.” “Yes!” “Please, infants,” Malachite groans.
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I love Malachite so mucccch
“It’s not a question of whether or not the apple falls far from the tree, because of course it doesn’t.” Her eyes fix in the distance. “It’s whether or not the apple can grow taller than the tree.”
“In the words of the very intelligent witch philosopher Erildan,” I grunt as I open the window and perch myself on it, the night wind blowing my hair every which way. “What is safe can never be satisfying.”
It happens in a blink—Malachite sits up instantly, pulling in air in a single massive gasp. The glow of his eyes flutters as his eyelashes do—he looks around at all of us blearily. “What did I miss?” he manages. Lucien’s posture eases, Fione going still. “I’m sorry, Sir Malachite!” she blurts. “It was my fault—I didn’t check the bookshelf for a trap before you—” “Vachiayis!” Malachite snarls as he shifts, clutching at his leg. “What in the Dark Below happened to me?” “You might be resistant to fire, but it turns out you’re not immune to explosions,” I joke softly. Malachite shoots me a pained
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“Why?” My voice cracks. “Why me? What did I do to deserve your heart?” The world can crumble in so many ways. I saw it crumble when Mother and Father died. I saw it crumble when I killed those five men. I saw it crumble when I had to say good-bye to Crav and Peligli to come here. I saw it crumble the first time I witnessed a purge. But unlike those times, when my world crumbles now, it gets rebuilt, right in front of my eyes. In front of my lips; his on mine, soft and sweet, his mouth hungry and his hands hungrier—lacing in my hair, resting on my hips. For one golden moment, nothing matters. I
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“T’ragan dhim af-artora, af-reyun horra,” Malachite says, his crimson eyes a little serious, for once. “Translation?” “As we all should be, but as we all cannot be.”
