I don’t have too many books, I have too little shelving.

And if I have to die trying, I will get out of here.

But instead of tears, when I press my face against the pillow, a horrible, primal scream comes out of me. It's unlike anything I thought myself capable of. Rage, unlike anything I've ever known.

Hope, that risky, illustrious thing. It should have gone extinct by now, but we keep it alive.

In the distance I see a lighthouse. The light washes over us and continues on its rotation. This time, I don't know where the light will guide us.

No matter how lonely it makes me, and no matter how wide and horrific the loneliness, at least I remember who I am.

Before I can process what’s happening, Deirdre has opened her hands and Linden has taken the ring from her and slipped it onto my finger. “Rhine Ashby,” he says. “My wife.