Some of what I was feeling passed to Nosy, who dropped over onto his side and showed his belly in supplication while thumping his tail in that ancient canine signal that always means, ' I'm only a puppy. I cannot defend myself. Have mercy.'Had they been dogs they would have sniffed me over and then drawn back. But humans have no inbred courtesies.
Sevginin parayla ölçülmediği ama çekinmeden harcanan paranın da sevginin varlığına kanıt olduğu zamanlarda yaşıyorduk. Parası olmayan iyi insanlar sevdiklerini duyguya boğuyor, olanlar ise sevdikleri için gerçekten para harcıyorlardı.
Bu yaz yanınızdan ayırmak istemeyeceğiniz kitapları sizin için bir araya getirdik.
💬 Siz olsanız bu listeden hangisiyle başlardınız?
sevgi parayla yaşanan bir lüks olmuş
Lyäri Nōhcra
She strides confidently forward, stopping right in front of the
creature.
I have no fear, and neither does she. Both of us know it won’t hurt
her. She’s as much a part of me as this manifestation is.
Her ribbons curl in front of her armor-clad chest, lifting up to stroke
the creature’s maw. Everyone seems to hold their breath as it blinks,
watching her.
Then the dragon lowers its head as a subject might bow for a queen.
I’m reminded suddenly about what my father said—about how if I
manifested a dragon, I would be king of the skies.
But he was wrong.
Because my dragon drops in supplication to her. She’s the one who
rules, and I couldn’t be more fucking proud.
The sight affects the Vulmin and the Lydians too. They all stand in
gaping awe, watching this golden Turley stand here, as a dragon, the most
ancient of powers, bows to her.
I climb down its back, leaping off the last few feet, my boots kicking
up dust from the decayed soil. I go to her, and the two of us share a look
before we turn back toward the city’s arch.
Where everyone suddenly drops to their knees, repeating one thing.
Lyäri Nōhcra.
No longer the golden one gone, but…
The golden one who rules.
Her cage
He ignores both my indebted gratitude and the shake in my words.
Instead, he surprises me by saying, “Show me her cage.”
I freeze.
Cold dread gathers in my stomach, and a pulse-pounding silence
stretches between us. “Her cage?”
Another snub at my words. Instead of replying, he turns on his heel
and strides into the castle, and it’s all too clear that he expects me to go with
him.
Across the courtyard, I glance over at Dommik, because something
has been made abundantly clear. King Ravinger has hate in his eyes when
he looks at me, and it stems from a source I didn’t expect.
The gilded pet.
“I should kill you for the way you treated Auren. For the way you
fucking allowed your husband to treat her. For doing nothing.”
And now, he wants me to show him her cage.
I owe a debt to Ravinger for saving my people, and he’s come to
collect. He’s come to make me pay.
Turning, I head inside to lead the rotten king.
Surely, this is what it feels like to be stalked.
King Ravinger’s presence behind me stifles and goads, making my
entire back prickle with threat. My body is teetering on a precipice of
adrenaline, not knowing whether to try to fight or flee. Though my mind
knows neither of those options would work if he chooses to kill me.
The only thing I could do is fall to the floor in another bow of
supplication. One doesn’t run from the apex predator. One doesn’t try to
fight a god with mere sticks.
You bend the knee and beg for mercy.
My thighs burn as I lead the way up the many flights of stairs, my
weakened body protesting the ascent just as much as my burdened mind.
Highbell is in tatters, with stolen furnishings and chipped-away gold.
Jim not that way Jim. That's no way to treat a garage door, bending stiffly down at the waist and yanking at the handle so the door jerks up and out jerky and hard and you crack your shins and my ruined knees, son. Let's see you bend at the healthy knees. Let's see you hook a soft hand lightly over the handle feeling its subtle grain and pull just as exactly gently as will make it come to you. Experiment, Jim. See just how much force you need to start the door easy, let it roll up out open on its hidden greasy rollers and pulleys in the ceiling's set of spiderwebbed beams. Think of all garage doors as the well-oiled open-out door of a broiler with hot meat in, heat roiling out, hot. Needless and dangerous ever to yank, pull, shove, thrust. Your mother is a shover and a thruster, son. She treats bodies outside herself without respect or due care. She's never learned that treating things in the gentlest most relaxed way is also treating them and your own body in the most efficient way. It's Marlon Brando's fault, Jim. Your mother back in California before you were born, before she became a devoted mother and long-suffering wife and breadwinner, son, your mother had a bit part in a Marlon Brando movie. Her big moment. Had to stand there in saddle shoes and bobby sox and ponytail and put her hands over her ears as really loud motorbikes roared by. A major thespian moment, believe you me. She was in love from afar with this fellow Marlon Brando, son. Who? Who. Jim, Marlon Brando was the archetypal new-type actor who ruined it looks like two whole generations' relations with their own bodies and the everyday objects and bodies around them. No? Well it was because of Brando you were opening that garage door like that, Jimbo. The disrespect gets learned and passed on. Passed
