Marsha > Recent Status Updates

Admittedly, he's not a red roses and candlelight kind of feller but, then, neither I am. And what he is, is someone who lets you use his room when his family kicks you out of yours, who buys you an overpriced guinea pig to hang on a Christmas tree, who takes you to a restaurant he remembers from his childhood, and kisses you like you're the only lad in the world. "I don't know, you have your moments."

"[Y]ou have a concussion," Jonathan concludes. "And amnesia. For all we know, you've got a boyfriend."
"Well, if I have," I throw back, "he's f**king terrible because I've been missing for a week and he's not texted."
He's turned away from me, which honestly I think is a bit overdramatic. But I have been right all along. He looks good when he's emotional, even more so when the emotion isn't anger.

Colin gave an apologetic shrug, but it was clear he intended to follow Lord Greymont, and Nico couldn't very well stay behind while they went off to fight Arnaud. He hesitated, torn between respect for Imogen and not wanting to leave his best friend to deal with Arnaud without him.
In the end, loyalty won out. Besides, he didn't want Imogen getting hurt any more than Lord Greymont did.

Grandmom guides her through the door with a dainty hand cupped on her shoulder. As it swings closed, Rose glances back at me, her face pinched with sorrow, reminiscent of a lonely Trader in a bar. I look away, but her despair lingers like a bad perfume. I turn back to my materials, but time and motion seem out of balance. Rose's exit replays in my mind over and over except it's my head on her body.

"Growing up, our house was a training ground for a magical secret society." Mom wraps and rewraps herself in a blanket. "The Order." A smile wafts between us. "And life there at Chateau Soleil even in off-season was..."
"Chateau Soleil?"
"Grandmom's estate."
"Estate? How big does a house have to be to have its own name?" We lived at my grandmother's until I was five. I can't remember it or picture it.

I'm out of the shower and in my dad's Radiohead T-shirt when I feel the room warm up ever so slightly. I feel the stress leave my chest. This is what I can't explain even though I tried to tell Sam about it once. I know my dad is dead and I'm not someone who believes in ghosts, but I do believe in this because I don't know how else to explain it. Sometimes, when I'm alone, I feel him there. I can almost hear him.

"Okay, what time are your mom and sister flying in?" I ask.
Elijah jumps in front of me to catch an errant Frisbee that was flying directly toward my face. I swear, this campus gets more and more rowdy before a holiday. Everyone feels so free to be reckless.
Reckless. Maybe that's what made me think it was a good idea to get all our families together for Thanksgiving.

Jessica.
The number of times I've thought about our kiss. How her touch brought me back from the brink of hopelessness and the pit of frustration after talking to my dad. That night was one of the few times I really wished I lived alone in that brownstone. Having nine roommates, including one actual bunk mate, doesn't allow for a guy to be able to take care of his needs while thinking about a certain spunky girl.

"Zilan!" the prince called from somewhere behind me.
I hesitated, wishing the Moon Alchemist had just killed me when she had the chance.
The prince had frozen halfway across a courtyard, his flock of servants all turning toward me in confusion. I thought about last night, how gentle his hands had been, even when they traced over my soul tag. I felt like he could see straight through me, right down to the bone.

"Why are you even talking to me?" I said. "I won't work for you."
"You were clear that you didn't want to travel with me to Chang'an," the prince said, "but now, you're already here."
"to study, not to serve you," I said. "I don't have time to help you. I haven't passed the second test yet, and I don't need you hanging around me, making the others think you bought my place here."

"Do you often go on walks so late at night, when it's so cold?" Andor asked with a sideways glance. Though he rubbed his arms against the chill, the shape of the willow trees as they dangled over the lake caught his rapt attention. "Is this some prima ballerina routine?" When I kept walking and said nothing, he added more seriously, "Laure? What's wrong?"
A pang of guilt sliced through me.

But they were in an impossible situation. If the Rousopouloses weren't amenable to anything else, what real choice did they have? He couldn't very well go back to Joanna empty handed.
No. This was risky, sure, but it was the best option they had--that Ray had. Besides, he was in too far. He couldn't turn back now even if he wanted to.

"You knew before," I said. "That I wanted to leave, that I was going to leave. And because you're unstable, you couldn't have it." I could see it with cruel clarity; it'd been my reality for the last few weeks. How could I ever leave her after I'd been the cause for her almost being murdered, of her being held hostage for weeks? I'd wanted her so desperately every second she was gone. Anything to get my mama back.

Without a month to plan, there was no way I was carrying a fifty-foot-wide oil painting out of here, or the commemorative plaque that was drilled into the lobby floor. Oh, and I doubted any of us were going to swipe the fountain from outside.
It made me want to bury my face in a pillow and scream. I could imagine the organizers snickering at our expressions as we came across their "gag" targets.

"Every family's messed up."
I feel defensive. We're not messed up, I want to say. It was one bad night. But instead, I just tell him. Everything. Even Thanksgiving. And just when I start to think that maybe this is the right thing to do--maybe problems do get lighter if you share them--I see Eric peek out of his bedroom window and I feel awful.

"You sure you're okay?"
"Me? I'm great." I did an excellent job of faking a hearty tone. "Have a good rest of your day--night." I'd forgotten the time difference again. And maybe there was more than three hours separating us these days. Funny that I'd intentionally gone the whole call without talking about Felix or anything else important going on in my life.

"I'd still like to see that." Jasper winked.
"Not now." It was hard enough getting up the courage to show him this one thing. I held out the page I'd already removed from the sketchbook. "So, this is kinda crap, but it's my version of Neptune as a Disney prince."
"Oh. My. God." Jasper did a fake swoon, which was pretty f--king gratifying, even as my heart still pounded. "This is incredible."

He eased off the boots and rubbed those red feet. God, that was ridiculous. He was going to get them better socks before Stetson lost his toes. The winter was bitter this year, as if the earth knew about Miz Betty.
"Oh, burns. Damn." Stetson began to pant softly.
"Yeah, and we got to get the blood flowing again before we stick you in hot water." He didn't think they needed lukewarm foot baths or anything, but damn.

He watched the outline of Curtis's face in the dashboard lights. "If there's anything you've never needed, it was strings, cowboy. You deserve to be wild and free more than anybody I've ever met."
"I've done my share of rambling, for sure." A tiny smile curled Curtis's mouth. "I'm actually tickled as a pig in shit about Christmas. I haven't had a real one in a bit."
"I haven't either. It'll be ours."
"It will."

The sound of a truck pulling up into the yard surprised him. Everyone knew he was home. No need to come feed for him.
The pups barked and wagged up a storm on the porch, so Stetson stepped out to see what was what.
He blinked a second. Curtis had to have broken every speed limit on the book.
That was Curtis, for sure, hopping out of his truck and trotting around to run up the stairs.
"Cowboy."

"We'll be right downstairs, Momma," Stetson murmured. "You enjoy your hairdo, huh? Sophia is a nice lady. She painted your toes for you, remember?"
her entire face lightened up at Stetson's words. "Yes! I do like the pretty colors."
"There you go."
Curtis grabbed the bag of food and followed Stetson out of the room, listening to the nurse jabber at Betty. Man, had it only been a half hour in there?

"It's too early." I blinked against the strong morning sun.
"This is what you get for talking me into round two last night." Derrick cuddled against my back, and no way was I rolling away from his delicious presence.
"Oh yes, I had to do a lot of convincing." I nudged his chest with my shoulder. He'd been damn enthusiastic about finishing what we'd started in the tub.

Aries squeezed her shoulder. "I'm leaving a stardust imprint on each of you. It's trackable. So, I'll know where to look. All starfolk will."
Ella nodded. "We'll be back." She tried to sound confident. She tried to fill her words with all the determination she felt. She'd orchestrated all of this and roped both Brigit and Jason into joining her.
They would find Masterji Thakur. They would bring him back.

"The Institute is a palimpsest all its own. Remember that word I taught you?"
"It's where words have been written on top of the original text." She'd written out the word in her notebook over and over again, loving the way it sounded and the idea of words crossing over and under one another.
"Very good." He pointed out of the elevator window. "The real Arcanum heart is buried."

The city of Betelmore hadn 't changed much in the eleven years since Gia had been away. She looked out on it from the air-trolley's window. They always flew along the wires of this place like a kettle of jeweled hawks, creating over the rooftops of turreted houses and quaint shops all stuck together like assorted taffies. There used to be heliogram billboards lighting up the skies, projecting all the entertainment.

Being one sane amidst a crowd of the mad, I hardly dared assert to my own mind, that the vast luminary had undergone no change--that the shadows of night were unthickened by innumerable shapes of awe and terror; or that the wind, as it sung in the trees, or whistled round an empty building, was not pregnant with sounds of wailing and despair.

One party remained, cut off from the rest, which did not sympathize in the joy exhibited on Adrian's arrival, or imbibe the spirit of peace, which fell like dew upon the softened hearts of their countrymen. At the head of this assembly was a ponderous, dark-looking man, whose malign eye surveyed with gloating delight the stern looks of his followers.

It fell to my lot, to come as the influential power, to allay the fierce tossing of these tumultuous waves. I spoke to her; I led her to reflect how happy Idris had really been, and how her virtues and numerous excellencies had found scope and estimation in her past career. I praised her, the idol of my heart's dear worship, the admired type of feminine perfection.

With eagerness one turns toward the east, with angry impatience one marks the unchequered darkness; the crowing of a cock, that sound of glee during daytime, comes wailing and untuneable--the creaking of rafters, and slight stir of invisible insect is heard and felt as the signal and type of desolation. Clara, overcome by weariness, had seated herself at the foot of her cousin's bed.

Death, cruel and relentless, had entered these beloved walls. An old servant, who had nursed Idris in infancy, and who lived with us more on the footing of a revered relative than a domestic, had gone a few days before to visit a daughter, married, and settled in the neighbourhood of London. On the night of her return she sickened of the plague.