The Witch Elm

by Tana French

Worrying had always seemed to me like a laughable waste of time and energy; so much simpler to go happily about your business and deal with the problem when it arose, if it did, which it mostly didn’t.

Sean has always had this air of comfortable detachment, of being—without either effort or smugness—a little more on top of the situation than anyone else.

mood. Things still felt a bit precarious, wobbly at the joints, as if they shouldn’t be prodded too hard.

“Yes! Bring the one we had last time, the—” A yawn caught her off guard. “Sorry, it’s not the company! I’m just—” “It’s late. You shouldn’t have waited up for me.” “I don’t mind. I like saying good night.”

She’s smart and spiky and funny, with a keen sense of beauty and a lovely, expansive capacity for happiness, someone I would have liked even if we weren’t related.

But even when the fear receded for a while, it was always there: dark, misshapen, taloned, hanging somewhere above and behind me, waiting for its next moment to drop onto my back and dig in deep.

damnit I have fear like this too.

mutual, grave, tender and careful kindness.

“The thing is, I suppose,” he said, “that one gets into the habit of being oneself. It takes some great upheaval to crack that shell and force us to discover what else might be underneath.”