The Six Deaths of the Saint (Into Shadow, #3)

by Alix E. Harrow

wondering if anyone would remember your name long enough to mark your grave,

He wore an expression you had never seen before, an avid, scorching hunger, which you thought must be love.

You saw yourself as an unholy triptych, three into one, one into three: she the girl, you the Devil, and I the Saint. And you understood, finally, that there had never truly been a she or a you but only a terrible, lonely I.

You could not decide if they were prophecies or memories, or whether there was any difference between the two.

“I would rather love a coward than mourn a legend.” “The Saint will be with me,” you said.

His gaze is steady, full of a love so naked and sincere that I wonder for a moment if the two of us are alone, if everything else is just another bad dream.