Book of a Thousand Days

by Shannon Hale

“Hitting is the language of cowards and drunkards,”

Mama used to say, you have to know someone a thousand days before you can glimpse her soul.

I offered to teach my lady how to cook dung cakes. She said, “I don’t know how, Dashti.” “That’s why I’ll teach you.” “I’ll do it wrong.” “Of course you will, everyone does wrong when learning something new.”

She looks at the whole world as though it crouches over, ready to pounce.

I miss myself, how I used to be.

I don’t mind leaving my little room so much. Privacy begins to feel somewhat like loneliness.

It’s that cat’s doing, no doubt in me. The creature loves her true as true, and she knows it. It’s the knowing that’s made the difference, I think. He wraps around her ankles or neck, even when she isn’t singing to him. He finds her at night and purrs into her belly. A cat can make you feel well rested when you’re tired or turn a rage into a calm just by sitting on your lap. His very nearness is a healing song.

I look at Lady Vachir and I see someone who loves nothing much, who’s seen a great deal of death in a short amount of time, and rather than feel sorrow, has decided to turn into stone.

All she’s been for years is a frightened little girl.