Kaz reached into his coat pocket. "Here," he said and handed Jesper a slender book with an elaborate cover."Are we going to read to each other?""Just flip it open to the back."Jesper opened the book and peered at the last page, puzzled. "So?""Hold it up so we don't have to look at your ugly face.""My face has character. Besides - oh!""An excellent read, isn't it?""Who knew I had a taste for literature?
He looked down at his boots. "That berth belongs to you too. It will always be there when―if you want to come back."Inej could not speak. Her heart felt too full, a dry creek bed ill-prepared for such rain. "I don't know what to say.
I think... sometimes when we find love we pretend it away, or ignore it, or tell ourselves we are imagining it. Because it's the most painful kind of hope there is. It can be ripped away so easily. By indifference. By death.
I think we often hold heroines to an absurd standard. Be brave! Be wise! Always know what's in your heart and speak the truth of it! No and no and no. We fight to be brave. We learn to be wise. We struggle to know ourselves and voice what we want.
Hope was tricky like water. Somehow it always found a way in.
I will tell you a story, one I used to tell to a little boy with dark hair. A silent boy who rarely laughs, who listened more closely than I realized. A boy who had a name and not a title
We put on our best clothes and die like heroes.
What is she to you anyway?""Here's my answer captain. She's the thing that made this all okay-the threadbare coats and the old boots and the guns that jams when you most need them to fire, the loneliness of knowing that you don't matter, that you will never matter, the fact that you're just another body, another uniform to be sent into the fold or the frost, another good boy who knows his place, who does his job, who doesn't ask questions, who will lie down and die and be forgotten. What is she? She's everything, you dumb son of a bitch.
I rolled my eyes. "For defending my honor, you dullard."He yanked me beneath a shadowed awning. I had a moment's panic when I thought he'd spotted trouble, but then his arms were around me and his lips were pressed to mine.When he finally drew back, my cheeks were warm and my legs had gone wobbly."Just to be clear," he said, "I'm not really interested in defending your honor.""Understood," I managed, hoping I didn't sound too ridiculously breathless.
I think the hard work of writing is just how long a book is terrible before it's good.