“And feast on the dead, I thought with a shudder. As if he could read my thoughts, he pressed a hand to my shoulder. His fingers were long and white, splaying over my arm like a waxen spider. If the gesture was meant to comfort me, it failed.”
More from Leigh Bardugo
“Know that I loved you. Know that it was not enough.”
“You keep storing up all that anger and grief. Eventually it spills over. Or you drown in…”
“The less you say, the more weight your words will carry.”