The Listeners

by Maggie Stiefvater

Tucker wondered why it was that humans were drawn to natural beauty. It wasn’t for them.

The doors, made intimidating simply by nature of being identical and numerous, stretched on and on. In the past, the maids had expressed fear that they would fling open, revealing ghosts. June, on the other hand, pictured the doors flinging open to reveal the living, all with urgent needs, none anticipated. Simple horrors.

June lingered in the doorway, observing the sight as the sight observed her.

When you believed in one intangible thing, why not a second, why not a third. If God, then why not the listeners in the water, if the listeners in the water, why not ghosts, if ghosts, why not unicorns—

Kindness was a virtue, but in evil places, empathy punished the wearer.

The attack had been both audacious and successful, two concepts Americans had come to believe they had ownership of.

“Miss Hudson, the Avallon is currently a government installation, and it’s past time you got next to the war effort.” “If I were any closer to the war effort,” June said, “I’d need to take its last name.”

This was another reason he was opposite to these people; humility cost him nothing. Pride was all these folks had, some years.

The Avallon had never been for those who deserved it. The Avallon had to present itself the same to everyone who came, or the entire illusion collapsed.

Hannelore could not remember Germany, but she very much enjoyed being German.

The hotel wasn’t for those who deserved it. It was for those who came. The moment that illusion was broken, so, too, was the staff.

“No,” June said. “I belong to the Avallon.”

On second thought, she could not remember if she had seen it move or just imagined how terrible it would have been if it had. Or how wonderful. Wonder, horror. Hannelore had a hard time telling feelings apart.

“A prison’s not defined by the beauty of the gates,” the Irishman said.

Her voice was full of mountain twang; he wanted to put her words in his mouth.

June, on her own, was just a teen girl with a barely controlled mountain accent. June, in these letters, was the Avallon, teeming with vivid, lovely power. She commanded them to come; they obeyed.

June reminded herself that she loved this place. Then she closed the door behind herself.

He remembered every single compromise he’d ever made, and doubted them every time he did, from the largest to the smallest. Compromises were so much harder to carry than black-and-white justice.

When people saw what was wrong and right, they were supposed to choose right.

It was hard to tell here at the Avallon. The guests made it what it was; it made the guests what they were; back and forth, mirrors facing each other.

Was she really considering sacrificing it all for a single person? Wasn’t that luxury?

“Everything,” he replied. “I want to be what makes you smile when we come home to each other and I want to be what makes you settle under a full moon and I want to be what makes you wild when I’m gone and I want to be what makes you laugh when I’m inside you and I want to be what makes you weep when I die and I want to be everything else in between and I want to take you out into the world and see it with you, but if it has to be here, then here is where I land.”

Her staff captain said, “Everything’s got to change eventually, Hoss.”