He'd believed it. She couldn't believe that he believed it. Sometimes, she hated him for that.
One of the things that always fascinated me about the Renaissance was that it was a time both of great scientific discovery and also of superstition and belief in magic. And so it was a period in which Galileo invented the telescope, but also a time when hundreds were burned at the stake because people thought they were witches.
An emotion clamped down on her heart. It squeezed her into a terrible silence. But he said nothing after that, only her name, as if her name were not a name but a question. Or perhaps that it wasnβt how he had said it, and she was wrong, and sheβd heard a question simply because the sound of him speaking her name made her wish that she were his answer.
His dear face, dear to her, dearer still. how could she love his face more for its damage? What kind of person saw someone's suffering and felt her heart crack open even wider, even more sweetly than before? There was something wrong with her. It was wrong to want to touch a scar and call it beautiful.
She turned to look at him, and he was already looking at her. βIβm going to miss you when I wake up,β she whispered, because she realized that she must have fallen asleep under the sun. Arin was too real for her imagination. He was a dream. βDonβt wake up,β he said.
Happiness depends on being free, and freedom depends on being courageous.
