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Who knew, she thought, that love could snuff out like a candle in a stiff breeze? And leave no trace. None at all.
“Erosion happens gradually.” Winter rubbed Sonya’s shoulders. “A rock’s strong, but it doesn’t notice how the water’s wearing it away.”
“I shouldn’t say this, but I’m going to. He won’t last here. He’s talented, and he’s savvy, but he’s shown himself to be dishonest, petty, and damn it, vindictive. He won’t last with us.”
Sonya understood the full meaning of poignant. It hurt, and it warmed, it brushed the dust off old sorrows even as it lifted new joy.
My father, the younger of twins by seven minutes, inherited the manor and his brother’s share of the Poole family business when, in the autumn of 1806, my uncle died by his own hand soon after the tragic death—by murder—of his bride of only hours.
“He chose death rather than me. He chose death to stay with her. Be damned to them, and now to you. Walk with them, Catherine Poole. Forever a bride.”
Again and again, over and over, year by year, and bride by bride. Find the seven rings. Break the curse.
“With my blade I took the first, then by my blood this house was cursed. One by one they wed, they die, because they seek to take what’s mine. And with their rings of gold, my spell will hold and hold.”
“Mom told me what she had with Dad was magic.” Cleo glanced back. “And you want that?” “Yeah. Don’t you?” “Damn right I do. I think everybody in the world wants that, and the lucky make it. Because you don’t find magic, Son, you make it.”
“Light always wins. Sometimes it takes way too long, but it always wins.”
