The Briar Club

by Kate Quinn

and guilt roiled in his stomach because he wanted to love his mother, and sometimes what pulsed through him came horribly close to hate.

“Mom says life isn’t fair and that’s all there is to it.” “Your mother says that to justify the fact that she isn’t being fair to you,” Mrs. Grace said calmly. “Which is mostly what people mean when they say ‘life isn’t fair.’ It isn’t, which is why people should endeavor to be more fair to one another, not less.”

there was that streak of iron running through him that didn’t seem like it would lend itself to a liar’s endless pliability.

Americans made a lot of fuss about “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses,” but most of them definitely preferred a certain kind of immigrant: the kind with no accent. And gratitude. Plenty of gratitude.

Her own reflection infuriated her—when would she stop being surprised that so much time

had passed? When would she stop thinking What the hell happened

But it was a life, and any life was better than being dead.

“Happiness.” Grace rose, smoothing her skirt. “It’s a choice as much as anything. Or you could choose to be angry, and if you stay angry long enough, it will become comfortable, like an old robe. But eventually you’ll realize that old robe is all you’ve got, and there isn’t anything else in the wardrobe that fits. And at that point, you’re just waiting to

trade the robe for a shroud—or at least, that’s what I’ve always thought.”

But bitterness, Reka thought, would be a hard habit to shed. She was still brimful of it, but she was feeling an itch as well—the itch to draw, to create, to make something even if it was only a badly sketched mess.