The Listeners

by Maggie Stiefvater

She smiled. It was a cowboy’s smile, a crinkle of the eyes, a quirk of the mouth. Tucker felt he was once more standing on the porch of a Texas cabin, looking at the sun blazing a deadly landscape to gold.

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.

had a raw edge, despite the mannered furniture; a house too long without people became a little feral.

The laugh. The laugh was definitely different on this side of the door. From the hall, it was buttercream. In person, it was arsenic and vinegar and vodka, all applied in the fondest way possible.

She said, “No.” A thorough no. A no you could roll onto paperwork in a heavy wind to crush it to the ground.

She didn’t know what the Avallon would be after this, but she knew it would never be this again. With her expression, June told her beloved staff: Thank you. With her heart, June told the water: Be free.