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She was usually the cynic in the room, but Marceline had three boys and two girls to get through the oncoming storm. Children made you vulnerable, your heart walking around outside your body.
Hannah knew the assault should strengthen her resolve, make her want to take up a sword. But every day that passed, she was less and less certain the world really was worth saving.
Viv pressed her lips together so she didn’t spill out her whole sorry tale to this unsuspecting stranger. What had seemed like a sensible idea after a half bottle of gin now had her wondering if someone would question her sanity. I’m searching for a happy ending to pull out of thin air.
“Books are a way we leave a mark on the world, aren’t they? They say we were here, we loved and we grieved and we laughed and we made mistakes and we existed. They can be burned halfway across the world, but the words cannot be unread, the stories cannot be untold. They do live on in this library, but more importantly they are immortalized in anyone who has read them.”
Fire as fierce as the flames that destroyed these very books had crept into her voice, and an echoing warmth bloomed in Viv. In that moment, Viv saw something enchanting behind the librarian’s facade. A guardian. It was a fanciful notion, perhaps, picturing this woman as a protector of books, but Viv liked the idea.
Americans were exhausted from caring about too many things. The plight of a free book program could hardly make waves in an ocean of grief and loss and hardship that was this never-ending war. Especially when the bigger fight had always been about soldiers’ voting rights. But there was an important story here to tell, one that she knew the public would care about if everyone could be shown what the stakes were.
“Our library is open to anyone who needs it. Always.”
She had believed in the basic goodness of people, that most were just trying to do their best in a world that could sometimes be hard. She had been open and kind and sarcastic, a good friend and a good sister. Not necessarily a good daughter, but she didn’t blame herself for that. She had loved bread and orange marmalade and a night at the theater, and she had quiet dreams that had seemed like they might be possible.
War—and she had decided they were at war—had a way of stripping away all those small things and then amplifying what was left. There were no tiny irritations or minor celebrations. It was all love and hate, fear and courage, poetry and destruction, everything more intense because of the contrast, the middle ground no longer there.
But the small things were what made a person. Hannah already felt gutted from grief, from betrayal, from a slow ...
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The pen might be able to destroy a nation eventually, but by the time it did, how many bodies would the sword have claimed?
Did bravery actually exist in real life, or was it just for fairy tales?
