“You are the blood in my veins, and the beating of my heart. You are my first waking thought, and my last sigh before sleeping. You are - you are bone of my bone, and breath of my breath.”—Hugh of Harrowfield, Sevenwaters (Juliet Marrillier)
She missed the stories. She missed the way he always told his stories. He would tell a story every night and every morning. And they would be quick and smart and stupid and funny. One day, when he left her and didn’t come back, she didn’t miss him that much. She didn’t miss his look or his smell or his heart. She only missed his stories. So strange and stupid and crazy and kind. She forgot herself when the stories were there. When the stories sank into her brain and made themselves comfortable for sleep.