The Listeners

by Maggie Stiefvater

What was luxury? Nimble. In a drought, it was a glass of water; in a flood, a dry place to stand. Whatever made the Avallon luxurious a year ago would not be what made it luxurious now.

June had long ago discovered that most people were bad listeners; they thought listening was synonymous with hearing. But the spoken was only half a conversation. True needs, wants, fears, and hopes hid not in the words that were said, but in the ones that weren’t, and all these formed the core of luxury. June had become a good listener.

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—

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.

To have achieved notability but not be asked to perform it: that was a kind of luxury, too.

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.

(Why do you say “unbeautiful” instead of “ugly”? Just because something isn’t beautiful doesn’t make it ugly. The necessary is very rarely beautiful.)

In a room of uncertainty, confidence wins.