“i’m sorry,” i whispered, starting to get up. i was always saying the wrong thing.
“don’t leave,” conrad said, and his shoulders collapsed. his face did too. he hid it in his hands, and he was five years old again, we both were.
Mustafa Kemal's enemies said they were lovers, for Arif was the only person for whom Mustafa Kemal showed open affection, putting his arm round his shoulders and calling him endearing names. Others were convinced they were relatives, for Arif was almost a double of Mustafa Kemal.
There were two beds in the hotel room. Two double beds to be precise, and as she stared at them, Olive felt her shoulders sag with relief and had to resist the urge to fist-pump. Take that, you stupid rom-coms.
The golden shimmer of Edna's satin gown spread in rich folds on either side of her. There was a soft fall of lace encircling her shoulders. It was the color of her skin, without the glow, the myriad living tints that one may sometimes discover in vibrant flesh. There was something in her attitude, in her whole appearance when she leaned her head against the high-backed chair and spread her arms, which suggested the regal woman, the one who rules, who looks on, who stands alone.
But as she sat there amid her guests, she felt the old ennui overtaking her; the hopelessness which so often assailed her, which came upon her like an obsession, like something extraneous, independent of volition. It was something which announced itself; a chill breath that seemed to issue from some vast cavern wherein discords waited. There came over her the acute longing which always summoned into her spiritual vision the pres-ence of the beloved one, overpowering her at once with a sense of the unattainable.
Ah, Sophie...
A sickening idea struck her. "Could you make them forget me? Make it like I never existed?"
Alden bit his lip. "It's more complicated, but it can be done. But would that really better? They'd be relocated. They'd lose their jobs, their house, all their friends—"
"That's better than thinking their daughter is dead."
Her words seemed to hit him, and he turned away, staring deep into aquarium. "What about you?" he said after a strecth of silence. "These are people you love, Sophie. If we erase you, they won't miss you, they won't even know you exist. Wouldn't that be too painful?"
A single tear slipped down her cheek. "Yes. But only for me. For them..." She squared her shoulders and set her jaw. "It's the best thing for them."
Long Live the Queen
Not an official throne—just a larger, finer chair that had been selected
from the sad lot of candidates.
Darrow, too, stared toward the open doors, face impassive. Yet his
eyes glowed.
The trumpets rang out.
A four-note summons. Repeated three times.
Pews groaned as everyone twisted to the doors.
Behind the dais, hidden beyond a painted wooden screen, a small
group of musicians began playing a processional. Not the grand,
sprawling orchestra that might accompany an event of this magnitude,
but better than nothing.
It didn’t matter anyway.
Not as Elide appeared in a lilac gown, a garland of ribbons atop her
braided black hair. Every step limped, and Rowan knew it was because
she had asked Lorcan not to brace her foot. She’d wanted to make this
walk down the long aisle on her own two feet.
Poised and graceful, the Lady of Perranth kept her shoulders thrown
back as she clutched the bouquet of holly before her and walked to the
dais. Lady of Perranth—and one of Aelin’s handmaidens. For today.
For Aelin’s coronation.
Elide was halfway down the aisle when Lysandra appeared, clad in
green velvet. People murmured. Not just at the remarkable beauty, but
what she was.
The shape-shifter who had defended their kingdom. Had helped take
down Erawan.
Lysandra’s chin remained high as she glided down the aisle, and
Aedion’s own head lifted at the sight of her. The Lady of Caraverre.
Then came Evangeline, green ribbons in her red-gold hair, beaming,
those scars stretched wide in utter joy. The young Lady of Arran.
Darrow’s ward. Who had somehow melted the lord’s heart enough for
