A Forgery of Roses Quotes

“A love for books is the best indicator of a curious mind.”
― Jessica S. Olson, A Forgery of Roses

“You’re right,” he says, his voice quiet but certain. “This anxiety will always be a part of me. It’s not going anywhere, and I’m going to have to live with it for the rest of my life. But I am not broken because of it.”
The governor opens his mouth to speak, but August goes on, his grip on me tight and solid.
“I’ve been apologizing to you for who I am for years, but I’m done believing the lie you’ve fed to me, the lie that says I’m less of a man because I’m not exactly like you. The lie that says I deserve less respect because I struggle.” He lifts his chin. “I’m far stronger than you’ll ever be. Because I’ve fought for every victory. Because those fights have taught me compassion and kindness. They’ve taught me to see the world for what it is, not for what I think it should be. So step aside, Father. I’m done minimizing my greatness so you can feel superior.”
― Jessica S. Olson, A Forgery of Roses

“I’ve been fighting so hard for so long, clinging desperately to the things that I can control.
Perhaps it’s time to accept that there are things I cannot and never will be able to control. And maybe it’s time to stop punishing myself for those things.”
― Jessica S. Olson, A Forgery of Roses

“Ever since I was a child, I’ve been trying to live up to this life he’s made for me. And I’ve come up short at every turn.”
― Jessica S. Olson, A Forgery of Roses

“He seems to know the ache I feel. The ache of trying so hard to be something that seems impossible. Of wanting desperately to do more, be more.”
― Jessica S. Olson, A Forgery of Roses

“Art holds magic. It captures how it feels to be alive, with all its aches and sorrows and joy.”
― Jessica S. Olson, A Forgery of Roses

“I don’t claim to be a great Prodigy—or even a good one. But I’ve never let my own mediocrity stop me from trying.”
― Jessica S. Olson, A Forgery of Roses

“No matter how many paintbrushes I might use or which colors I might blend, I could never capture this moment. This moment that a past me might have found flawed. This moment that is so unutterably flawless.”
― Jessica S. Olson, A Forgery of Roses

“You get to choose, Myra,” August says quietly, as though reading my mind. He takes the notebook back and tucks it into his pocket.
“Choose what?” I ask on a breath.
“Which you want to be.”
His words are soft, but they strike me to my core. I can choose to imprison my heart, be the warden and executioner of my own dreams…
Or I could liberate myself from the weight of all the guilt I carry for the many ways my life has become so far out of control.”
― Jessica S. Olson, A Forgery of Roses

“Being kind is much more important than being able to give impressive speeches, and creativity is the sign of a brilliant mind.”
― Jessica S. Olson, A Forgery of Roses

“I was going to do some more work when I got home, but…” She sighs, rubbing her knuckles against her eyes. “I didn’t have enough juice.”
“Ah,” I say.
For her birthday this summer, I splurged and bought a small bushel of oranges, which we squeezed into glasses and pretended was the real, gourmet orange juice our father used to make. As we sat at the table, acting like the drink wasn’t sour and pulpy, we got to talking about how her illness had come to affect her life. She explained to me that her energy reserves were like that glass of yellow juice. Every action of daily life—getting out of bed, bathing, dressing, doing research—siphoned juice away. Once the glass was empty, no matter how much she had left she needed to do or how much she’d hoped to get done, her body needed to rest. To refill the glass. If she tried to push beyond that, it could knock her out for days. Even weeks.”
― Jessica S. Olson, A Forgery of Roses

“There’s only one condition to this outing.”
“Oh, you asked me, and now you’re saying it’s conditional?” I raise a brow. “What kind of gentleman are you anyway?”
“I’m charming.”
“Is that what they’re calling ‘incorrigible’ these days?”
― Jessica S. Olson, A Forgery of Roses

“Some things are worth that kind of fight, Myra, and you are worth every fight.”
“Are you sure?” My voice warbles dangerously close to sobs.
He tosses his hat aside and gathers my fingers in both of his hands. “You make me happier being me than I’ve ever been in my life. I can’t tell you how freeing it is to be seen.” He pauses, offering me a tentative smile. “I can’t promise you I won’t mess up. I can’t promise that there won’t be hard times, times where the battle might be too much to bear. There will be many anxious moments to come, because that’s part of who I am and the reality of what going against my parents will be like, but I’m willing to take the harder road if that means I get to keep you in my life.”
His voice drops to a bear whisper. “I’ll be honest, there are so many unknowns about the future I’m choosing here that I can’t bank on, and that terrifies the hell out of me. But there is one thing I can promise you.” He brings my hands up to his mouth and brushes his lips along my fingertips one by one. “You will never have to face anything alone again. I will do whatever it takes to be the person you can count on when everyone and everything else fails you.”
― Jessica S. Olson, A Forgery of Roses

“You were right. Everything I’ve been doing has been all for the wrong reasons. Solely to make my parents happy. To do what was expected of me, what would make me look like less of a failure.” He lets out a slow breath. “I’m done pretending to be what the want me to be. I’m ready to live my life the way I want it.”
― Jessica S. Olson, A Forgery of Roses

“Don’t you understand? You are my entire life. Fighting this by your side isn’t holding me back. I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.”
She hiccups against me as we cry together for several minutes, clinging to each other the way we always have. The two of us like a rock against a storm, a little huddled piece of security in a world set on tearing us down.
Finally, Lucy’s sobs slow, and she sits back, rubbing the heels of her hands across her cheeks. “You know what else I feel?”
“Tell me.”
“Determined. I am still Lucy. I still want the same things I’ve always wanted.” She clenches her fists. “Yes, the path to my dreams may be harder and longer and far more painful than I want it to be. It may take me twice as much time and effort as someone else to attain my goals, but I will get there.”
I brush the hair from her face. “And I will be there with you every step of that road, every doctor’s appointment, every treatment. I will find a job to pay for the things you need, and we will do this together. The highs and the lows. The successes and the failures. You do not have to climb this mountain alone.”
― Jessica S. Olson, A Forgery of Roses

“Why are you wincing like that?”
“I’m not wincing. This is just my face.”
― Jessica S. Olson, A Forgery of Roses

“Take Lucy as an example. Yes, she has an illness, and fools may claim that makes her weak, yet she is the furthest thing from weak I’ve ever known. She deals with everything I do—the grief of losing our parents, the fear of the unknown, even the days of hunger when we can’t afford meals—and then a whole array of things I don’t. Physical pain, eating restrictions, fatigue, not to mention the emotional weight of living in a world that refuses to accommodate her. As far as I’m concerned, I may be the one with magic, but she’s the truly powerful one. Because she’s fought where I have never had to.” I lean forward. “And if anyone ever even insinuated that her illness needed to be cured in order for to amount to anything, well…” My jaw tightened. “Let’s say I would have some very choice words for those people.”
― Jessica S. Olson, A Forgery of Roses

“But I don’t do crowds.”
“Why?” I search his face, desperate to understand, desperate to see.
“Because that’s how it is.”
“But—”
“No. Don’t do that.” His voice hardens.
I take a step back. “Do what?”
“Stand there and tell me that if I just tried, if I just ‘put myself out there,’ I could get over it.” Though he’s still speaking barely above a whisper, it feels as though he’s shouting, and I take a step back. “Have you ever felt like your heart was about to beat itself to death? Like your lungs were seizing up? It’s not a pleasant experience. Your vision goes splotchy, and your body feels like it’s shredding itself inside. Hot sweats. Dry mouth. It feels like dying, and I’m sorry, but I don’t have to force myself to go through that because you think I should.” He pauses to take a slow breath and turns away. “The more I try to force myself to be something I’m not, the worse the attacks get. So no. I’m not going.”
― Jessica S. Olson, A Forgery of Roses

“You said yourself you didn’t like him.”
He frowns. “Just because I didn’t like him doesn’t mean I didn’t love him. He was my brother. Surely I shouldn’t have to explain that.”
― Jessica S. Olson, A Forgery of Roses

“Despite what my mother thinks, I’m not totally inept,” August says quietly. “Let me help you.”
― Jessica S. Olson, A Forgery of Roses

“Maybe that's what the answer really is to the aches and the toils of this cruel world. Finding people we can lean on and love.

Because no matter how many paintbrushes I might use or which colors I might blend, I could never capture this moment. This moment that a past me might have found flawed. This moment that is so unutterably flawless.”
― Jessica S. Olson, A Forgery of Roses

“Make them see your strength like you just made me see.”
“I…I can’t,” he says.
“You’re whole life, they’ve forced you aside, trampled over you because they’ve made you believe you have to earn their love by hiding the truth. Don’t give them that power. They don’t deserve it.” I step closer. “You are one of the fiercest people I know, and I hate watching them treat you like you need to be ashamed of the things that have made you that way.”
His Adam’s apple bobs.
“Your battles are as valid as theirs, mine, as anyone’s. I’m sorry I let myself forget that.”
― Jessica S. Olson, A Forgery of Roses

“I’m sorry. I only thought about what it would have been like if I had been in your place. I didn’t stop to consider that it was unfair of me to assume we face the same battles in any given situation.”
― Jessica S. Olson, A Forgery of Roses

“Mrs. Harris’s coach should be here any minute. I trek toward the curb, but just as I reach it, the latch on my bag drops open again, and the contents spill into the snow. Cursing, I bend to retrieve my things, but a violent gale whips me backward into the slush, snatching petticoats, chemises, and knickers into the air.
“No!” I cry, scrambling after my clothes and stuffing them one by one back into my bag, glancing over my shoulder to make sure no one has caught a glimpse of my underthings dancing across the street.
A man snores on a stoop nearby, but no one else is out. Relieved, I scuttle through the snow, jamming skirts and books and socks into the bag and gritting my teeth as the wind burns my ears.
A clatter of hooves breaks through the howling tempest, and I catch sight of a cab headed my way. My stomach clenches as I snap my bag closed once more.
That must be Mrs. Harris’s coach.
I’m really going to do this.
But as I make my way toward it, a white ghost of fabric darts in front of me.
My eyes widen.
I missed a pair of knickers.
Panic jolting through my every limb, I sprint after it, but the wind is too quick. My underclothes gust right into the carriage door, twisting against its handle as the cab eases to a stop.
I’m almost to it, fingers reaching, when the door snaps open and a boy about my age steps out. “Miss Whitlock?” he asks, his voice so quiet I almost don’t hear it over the wind.
Trying not to draw attention to the undergarments knotted on the door just inches from his hand, I give him a stiff nod. “Yes, sir, that’s me.”
“Let me get your things,” he says, stepping into the snow and reaching for my handbag.
“Uh—it’s broken, so I’d—I’d better keep it,” I mumble, praying he can’t feel the heat of my blush from where he is.
“Very well, then.” He turns back toward the coach and stops.
Artist, no.
My heart drops to my shoes.
“Oh…” He reaches toward the fabric knotted tightly in the latch. “Is…this yours?”
Death would be a mercy right about now.
I swallow hard. “Um, yes.” He glances at me, and blood floods my neck. “I mean, no! I’ve never seen those before in my life!”
He stares at me a long moment.
“I…” I lurch past him and yank at the knickers. The fabric tears, and the sound of it is so loud I’m certain everyone in the world must have heard it.
“Here, why don’t I—” He reaches out to help detangle the fabric from the door.
“No, no, no, I’ve got it just fine,” I say, leaping in front of him and tugging on the knot with shaking hands.
Why. Why, why, why, why, why?
Finally succeeding at freeing the knickers, I make to shove them back into my bag, but another gust of wind rips them from my grasp.
The boy and I both stare after them as they dart into the sky, spreading out like a kite so that every damn stitch is visible.
He clears his throat. “Should we—ah—go after them?”
“No,” I say faintly. “I—I think I’ll manage without…”
― Jessica S. Olson, A Forgery of Roses

“I am full of hope and light, power and fight. Viridians and alizarins and ultramarines swirl within me, and I weave my hands through his hair, feel those light lashes butterfly across my cheeks, taste cinnamon in his breath.
“Ew are you two kissing? I’m right here,” Lucy says.
August and I laugh and continue without pause.
This kiss is not the passionate tryst that I always imagined a kiss would be. Our noses knock against each other, and I can’t quite figure out how to breathe. We break apart to laugh and then dive back in for more. I feel his smile against my own, and it sets my heart galloping.
This is a kiss of light. Of hope. Of trust.”
― Jessica S. Olson, A Forgery of Roses

“I’ve spent my whole life striving for perfection, running myself into the ground searching for how to make things right, how to control every outcome, every moment. But maybe perfection does not mean there aren’t things we wish were different. Maybe perfection comes from leaning into the things that we have to fight for because those are the things that bind us to the people worth keeping.
Maybe that’s what the answer really is to the aches and the toils of this cruel world. Finding people we can lean on and love.
Because no matter how many paintbrushes I might use or what colors I might blend, I could never capture this moment. This moment a past me might have found flawed. This moment that is so utterly flawless.”
― Jessica S. Olson, A Forgery of Roses

“Warm tingles trail under my skin, and I shiver.
“Please,” he says, dropping my hands so he can tuck one of his into my hair and tilt my head up to him. “Come with me to the symposium. And then come with me to the pub and the museum, to the park, to the sunset, to the sky.”
His cinnamon breath is warm on my lips, and I remember the night on the balcony under the stars when I wanted so badly for him to close the distance between us.
“You speak like a poet,” I whisper.
When he laughs, I feel the rumble of it where my hands rest against his chest, and my whole body trembles.
“Just say yes!” Lucy cries from behind the curtain. “For Artist’s sake, Myra!”
“Go to sleep!” I shout back, not taking my eyes from August.”
― Jessica S. Olson, A Forgery of Roses

“So, uh…” I gesture around the room with my other hand. “Who’s paying for all of this? Because I certainly can’t afford it.”
“My father is, actually.”
“But your father thinks I’m a demon.”
A shy grin steals across August’s face. “It’s true, but I also pointed out that unless he did something substantial to help, you might not be willing to keep quiet about what Will did to your family.”
“You blackmailed him?” My brows rise.
“I did.” He grins, almost bashful.
I squeeze his hand again. “Thank you. I can’t imagine what a difficult conversation that must have been for you.”
“I’ll be completely honest, seeing you like that…You looked dead, Myra. I was so angry, it took all my self-control not to throttle the man.”
I snort. “I would pay good money to see that.”
“Well, I, unlike some people, actually know how to use a broadsword.”
“How hard is it to hack and stab? I mean, honestly.”
― Jessica S. Olson, A Forgery of Roses

“I shudder, gasping for air.
“Myra!”
Something grips my shoulders, and I flail against it.
“Breathe!” August’s voice is suddenly loud in my ears, and it jolts my vision clear.
He moved his hands from my shoulders to my face, cupping either side of it, holding my gaze steady with his.
“Breathe with me,” he says, more quietly this time. And then he inhales slowly.
The dagger drops from my hand, clattering away on the floor, and I wrap my hands around his, grounding myself in them.
And I breathe.
Together, we stand in the sunlight.
In and out. In and out.
And slowly, ever so slowly, the tidal wave of panic and fear ebbs. Air fills my lungs, and my body sags.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper after several moments.
“Never apologize for feeling your fear,” August says, letting his hands fall to his sides. “Not to me.”
― Jessica S. Olson, A Forgery of Roses

“You’re very lucky you had such a good relationship with him. My father loathes me.”
“Why?”
“You know, to be honest, I’m not sure. Maybe I’m too much like him.” His expression sours. “He probably doesn’t like being reminded of his own worst traits. Can’t blame him for that, I suppose.”
― Jessica S. Olson, A Forgery of Roses