Vita di una lettrice

Lui si voltò a guardarmi, con la sua solita aria imperscrutabile di quand'era preoccupato. Furono i suoi occhi a lasciarmi capire cosa stava pensando. "Vorrei avvolgerti intorno a me come un mantello e coprirti di baci, ma abbiamo dei feriti di cui occuparci. Sappi solo che non ho dubbi su ciò che provo per te, neanche nel mezzo di tutto questo." Una prima lacrima, trattenuta a lungo, mi scivolò su una guancia. "Ho creduto che fossi morto, e..." Galen mi lasciò la mano, e Doyle mi prese tra le braccia. Restai aggrappata a lui come se le sue mani sul mio corpo fossero aria e cibo, e ne avessi bisogno per vivere.

Doyle si voltò verso di me "Io non servo più quella regina". Per un momento mi chiesi se avrei dovuto chiedergli scusa per questo. Poi la sua espressione lo rese inutile. Lui mi amava. Era scritto sulla sua faccia, nei suoi occhi. Doyle mi amava, e da me voleva solo amore, non scuse.

Non ci si può nascondere dal dolore, si può soltanto posporlo finché non lo ritroviamo.

Non provavo niente fuorché la necessità della vendetta, come se quella necessità fosse un'emozione in se stessa, priva di odio, o di rabbia, o di tristezza. La vendetta aveva una sua forza e mi spingeva avanti.

Speranza. Era una parola importante. Una buona parola. Ma in quel momento non mi sembrava abbastanza.

Io ti amerò sempre. Quando i tuoi capelli rossi saranno bianchi, ti amerò. Quando la tua pelle liscia sarà sciupata dall'età, io vorrò ancora accarezzarla. Quando la tua faccia sarà piene delle rughe di tutti i sorrisi che hai sorriso, e di tutte le sorprese che ti ho visto negli occhi, e scavata da tutte le lacrime che hai pianto, mi sarai ancora più preziosa, perché io avrò vissuto con te ognuna di quelle cose. Condividerò la vita con te, Meredith, e ti amerò, finché l'ultimo respiro non lascerà il tuo corpo o il mio.

And then you cry fresh tears because you do not miss him as much as you once did, and giving up your grief is another kind of death.

"I thought this oil was supposed to make everything look ordinary," Carmichael said. "It is," I said. "Then why is he still so damned beautiful?" She pointed at Frost. I smiled at his face going cold and arrogant. It didn't make him one bit less attractive. Goddess had made it impossible for him to be anything else. "Maybe ordinary is the wrong word," I said. "The oil helps you see reality." Carmichael shook her head. "He can't be real."

"And now, children, let's go talk to the nice policemen before they freeze their badges off." "Badges?" Dogmaela said. "Is that some new slang for balls?" Rhys grinned at her. "And when we walk over there they will all get their badges out and flash them at the princess." Frost and I said "Rhys" at the same time. Dogmaela said, "What an odd custom."

Love is too precious to be ashamed of.

Rhys and Galen both yelled, "Don't!" I sensed Doyle and others moving, but I was next to the kneeling Onilwyn as he raised his hand and called his magic, pointing it at Maggie May. I didn't think, I just reacted. My hand was still wrapped around the iron skillet. I hit him full in the in the face with as much strength as I had in one arm. I'm not as strong as full-blooded sidhe, or even brownie, but I can punch my way through a car door and not hurt myself. There was a thick silence in the room. I think I surprised everybody, including myself. Rhys shook his head, squatting down by the fallen man. "You really don't like him, do you?" "No."

"Kiss him," the wind said, "kiss him. Let him taste the chalice." But the chalice is not here, I thought. The wind said, "you are the chalice." Oh, of course.

They held me, and I wept. Crying didn't cover it. I wept the last of my childhood away. I was thirty-three years old; it seemed a little late to be letting go of childish things, but some wounds cut us so deep that they stop us. Stop us from letting go, from growing up, from seeing the truth.

He touched my good arm lightly, as if not sure I wanted to be touched at that moment. My breathcame out in a sharp cry, and I threw myself against his body. He held me, in his arms fierce and almost painful. He held me while I cried because he understood some of what it had cost me to let go of childish things.

My father had taught me to be nice first, becuase you can always be mean later, but once you've been mean to someone, they won't believe the nice anymore. So be nice, be nice, until it's time to stop being nice and then destroy them.

That feeling of terrible emptiness when I touched him was like going into a house that would be full of people you loved, only to find it empty, and even the forniture taken.

"Merry," Rhys said, "I'd put it in a different way, if I were telling her." He looked a little pale himself. I shook my head. "But you aren't princess, Rhys, I am."  He smiled, still pale. "I don't know, I think I'd look cute in a tiara." I laughed, I couldn't help it. I hugged him then. "You'd look adorable."