Somewhere in the center of my soul, a rusty chain began to unwind. It freed itself, link by link, from where it had rested, unobserved, waiting for him. My hands, which had been balled up and pressed against his chest, unfurled with it. The chain continued to drop, to an unfathomable depth where there was nothing but darkness and Matthew. At last it snapped to its full length, anchoring me to a vampire. Despite the manuscript, despite the fact that my hands contained enough voltage to run a microwave, and despite the photograph, as long as I was connected to him, I was safe.
Deborah HarknessNi muer ni viu ni no guaris, Ni mal noยทm sent e si lโai gran, Quar de sโamor no suy devis, Ni no sai si ja nโaurai ni quan, Quโen lieys es tota le mercรฉs Queยทm pot sorzer o decazer.โ โNot dying nor living nor healing, there is no pain in my sickness, for I am not kept from her love. I donโt know if I will ever have it, for all the mercy that makes me flourish or decay is in her power.
Deborah HarknessAre you smelling me?โ After yesterday I suspected that my body was giving him all kinds of information I didn't want him to have. โDon't tempt me,โ he murmured.
Deborah Harkness