Marsha > Recent Status Updates

That was the cue to get to work and not stand there staring at each other longingly as if they were crushes in a teen movie. Things sort of felt that way, though, all of the happy, bright potential so sparkling and new. Cam would say things like that, almost throwaway lines, yet butterflies would take flight in her chest. Butterflies that made her eagerly anticipate going home with him each night.

It wasn't that she disliked being the solo focus of filming, but it did cause unease to slither through her guts. Not that she feared for her safety. Yet her intuition told her that Jane didn't have her best interests at heart; her priority would always be about the show and creating content that would drive viewers to watch. That meant Kenya had to be on constant guard, exhausting her emotional energy even more.

"Some people didn't appreciate that," Cam said, his brows crunching down. "I'm thinking of that one woman who stress-cried in particular."
"Amanda, you mean? I still don't know if she was faking all of that so that we'd help her, or if that's just how she deals with pressure. At the end of the day I had to make sure that I had my stuff together. I didn't get into this to lose. I also wasn't there to make friends."

"I ran out while watching the last show and that bitchy judge. Was it really as bad as it looked on TV? Because it sure as hell looked like she's out to get you."
"Yeah. It was that bad. There were a lot of exchanges with her that didn't air. Trying to make me doubt myself and my choices, trying to make me feel like I didn't belong."
Anger roiled inside him. "How the hell did you deal with that?"

"Valerie is dead because of her."
"And she hurt me," Charlotte says. "But I want her alive."
"Why? She poisoned you. Kept you asleep for six years."
"She's my sister." She looks down at Sophia with tears in her eyes. "Just like you forgive your sisters for their mistakes, I will forgive mine." She steps closer to me. "You don't want her death on your hear, and the rest of these people are innocent."

We settle into another shabby room in another boardinghouse to rest after using our glamours. We still have three hourglasses' worth of time before the doors open for the Fashion Minister's exhibition. anxious flutters irritate my stomach, all the unknowns growing into a ball of nausea.
"How do we get to Valerie now?" I ask Edel.
She doesn't answer, her face buried in Arabella's letter, mumbling to herself.

Guests are coaxed into their seats. Little handwritten labels tell us where to sit. Royal relatives, ministers, and titled courtiers from high houses and merchant houses crowd the table. I scan the names, looking for my sisters, hoping Rémy lied, but I don’t see them.
An attendant approaches. “Lady Camellia, may I escort you to your seat?”
I nod, happy to be taken from Rémy’s watchful presence.

The evening whizzes by like the spinning of a newsreel. My sisters dance and laugh and give interviews and kiss cheeks and eat sweets. we have our portraits painted and talk to our big sisters--the previous generation of Belles. I hide in an adjacent tea salon to avoid the newsies until we return tot he Belle apartments. Amber doesn't come with us. She lingers in the Grand Imperial Ballroom.

"I daresay this is one of the best views in the whole palace," the Beauty Minister declares before leading us back inside. She points down a hallway. "The bathing onsens are toward the end of that corridor, and the treatment salons and recovery rooms."
"How many in total?" Padma asks.
"Eight grand apartments, all interconnected. Many years ago, the queen would invite the teahouse Belles to come here for parties."

A horrible suspicion bloomed in the back of Ranka's mind. The Kerth coven had been the first to be destroyed by the Hands--and their lands had shared a border with the Skra's. Ever since she'd arrived in Seaswept, the presence of winalin witches had increased tenfold. Which meant either the Hands had gotten particularly adept at catching them-or someone else was helping them.

He lit the match.
"We are Solomei's light. We are her Hand in the night."
"Mama," the little girl screamed. "Please."
"And by her Hand--we burn."
The match fell.
And the world caught fire.
Red, orange, and blue swirled up, building to an inferno in seconds. The girl howled as the flames spread to her cotton dress. Ranka stepped forward--and two strong arms locked around her waist, hauling her back.

The Virgin visits Perea only in the factory. That's where you get a job. Driving a fork life. It's something you used to do, so at least you don't look like an idiot even if they're suspicious of your accent. If they are, they say nothing. They're hiring--from what Baum said, they're always hiring.

He was vaguely aware that they were nulls. So were the boys. Nulls. Not children, either. Grown women. Gradually it penetrated. His passengers were the wild women. And carrying bloody knives. A terror that had nothing to do with the ktess bunched his shoulders. He looked back. They weren't creeping toward him with murderous intent. The three in the rear were standing up, their faces pressed to the windows.

Another thing he didn't consider was the effect of motivation on productivity. Those tests about how long it took English students to build a replica of an early Norman castle were completely irrelevant. I've supervised quick fortifications out on the boundaries of Duke Zolkir's territory, and I can promise you those kids would've worked a lot faster given the encouragement of a swordswoman behind them.

"You'll never work in this dominion again! You hear me?" He kicked the bubble and shouted and cursed some more, all to no avail. At last he gave up, sat, and sulked, looking more like a pouty child than a...than a slick-talking, career-sabotaging asshole.
The goblin director approached the bubble. He raised a palm, where an official-looking badge appeared.

"Yasmin," Giles said. "Please, may I take you upstairs? Or in a carriage? In the library? The back garden?"
Taht startled a giggle from her. "It's beginning to rain!"
"I would make love to you in the rain."
"Everyone would see us from the back windows."
"I wouldn't care. I would pull a blanket over us."
The expression on his face made her heart thunder and her worries ease away.

"Yasmin," Giles said. "Please, may I take you upstairs? Or in a carriage? In the library? The back garden?"
That startled a giggle from her. "It's beginning to rain!"
"I would make love to you in the rain."
"Everyone would see us from the back windows."
"I wouldn't care. I would pull a blanket over us."
The expression on his face made her heart thunder and her worries ease away.

They come alive at night, when the rest of the palace is sleeping. Servants must suspect that something is happening between them, but even if they do, they are too afraid to speak. During the day, Aegisthus keeps his distance, wandering in the woods and training alone. It is cold outside, though the winter isn't merciless. Sometimes the sun appears between the clouds, shiny and timid, a promise of warmth and spring.

"Artemis Orthia,
we worship you!"
Clytemnestra stands by the temple as the women around her dance and sing. It is the winter festival for Artemis, when boys and girls bring gifts to the goddess, singing until dawn breaks. Torches are fixed in the ground, swaying with the thud of feet, and the dancers come in and out of the shadows, dressed in nothing but animal skins. A wolf. A lynx. A leopard. A lion.

It is then that Menelaus comes in, alone. The sunset light falls on him, on his flaming red hair, the color of fire sparks in the darkness. He places his bronze sword aside on the floor, a sign of respect, and walks closer to the throne. Clytemnestra bites her lip. She is wary of his kindness, of the way he always bows to Tyndareus. He reminds her of Theseus when he first arrived in Sparta--handsome and violent.

While we were talking, my phone rang. It was Leon de Winter, a famous Dutch writer. I asked "Oh, are you going to tell me to be careful?" because all these lectures from friends and colleagues were starting to get on my nerves. But de Winter said, "No, I am only going to say how much I admire you. I watched you on TV the past two evenings, and I really think what you're doing for us is great."

It didn't have to be this way. The West underwent a period of religious warfare and persecution, but then society freed itself from the grip of violent organized religion. I assumed that the same process could occur among the millions of Muslims. We Muslims could shed our attachment to those dogmas that clearly lead to ignorance and oppression.

A month after Mahad's departure, the eviction police arrived and our household was flung into crisis. After years of clawing a few months' more delay out of the owners, Ma had still not found us a place to live. It was Grandma who finally found a practical solution--through the clan network, as usual--and we moved to temporary lodging in the house of an Isaq man in the neighborhood.

"He is not his father. He cares about people. He's compassionate. He's not a monster."
"You think that's enough?" says Carrik incredulously. "His parents destroyed any chance you had of having a family--"
"You're wrong," I cut him off. "I have a family. And you took her."
"I'm not going to hurt Rain. I know you. You wouldn't sacrifice her for anything. Not even for that sodding Prince."

Zensen waits outside the Prince's bedroom when I arrive for the night shift. Which is odd, because Devlyn is already here and, usually, the day shift leaves as soon as the next wave arrives.
I hold in a frown. "Is something wrong?"
Zensen motions me forward until the three of us stand in a close-huddled circle. "I wanted to alert you both." His voice is hushed. "Hayes has been...off today."

I place my hands on her shoulders. "I'm going to find who left that note. Is there anyone outside the family who knows about you?"
"No."
"Are you sure? You never mentioned it at school?"
Rain shakes her head. "I swear, I never told anyone."
I search her eyes for deceit. My tongue roots around my mouth for a hint of deception. Nothing. It's not definitive proof, but Rain's never been a good liar. Slowly, I nod.

I don't know if he ever made it back to the palace, but surely gossip about harm to the King's Courier would've made it to Briarlock by now. It's been almost two months since his blood was soaking into the dirt beside the forge. I've given up hope of ever seeing him again, which is fine. Better, actually, because the memory no longer stings like I once worried it would.

The floor was covered with grisly bits of meat and bone. The horses' hooves and legs were splattered with blood. Their eyes were wild, smart, and malevolent. When they saw Hercules, they whinnied, snapping at him with sharp, red-stained teeth. The nearest mares strained to break out of their stalls. Only the thick bronze chains around their necks kept them back, leashing them to a row of iron posts.

Linus ripped the lyre out of boy's hands. He smacked Hercules across the face with it.
Hercules yanked the lyre back from his teacher. "SEE THIS SCALE!"
He smashed Linus over the head repeatedly until the lyre was in pieces and the music teacher was dead.
Hercules was twelve. He was put on trial for murder. Fortunately, Hercules was smart. He pleaded self-defense, since Linus hit him first, and got off.

Winter Young was famous for being composed in public, for never giving a bad interview or getting caught with his guard down. She didn't think she could imagine him crying like this.
He looked so...human. He looked like just a boy, overwhelmed and exhausted.
She reached through the haze in her mind for Winter's story about the day he'd lost his brother and felt that curious twist of pity in her stomach again.