The Lost Sisters

Let’s start with a love story. Or maybe it’s another horror story. It seems like the difference is mostly in where the ending comes.

Fairy tales are full of girls who wait, who endure, who suffer. Good girls. Obedient girls. Girls who crush nettles until their hands bleed. Girls who haul water for witches. Girls who wander through deserts or sleep in ashes or make homes for transformed brothers in the woods. Girls without hands, without eyes, without the power of speech, without any power at all. But then a prince rides up and sees the girl and finds her beautiful. Beautiful, not despite her suffering, but because of it.

Be bold, be bold, but not too bold. Be good, but not too good. Be pretty, but not too pretty. Be honest, but not too honest. Maybe no one got lucky. Maybe it was too hard.

You’re awful.” He said it as though he was delighted. “And the worst part is that you believe otherwise.

Fairy tales have a moral: Stay on the path. Don’t trust wolves. Don’t steal things, not even things you think no normal person would care about. Share your food but don’t trust people who want to share their food with you; don’t eat their shiny red apples, not their candy houses, nor any of it. Be nice, always nice, and polite to everyone: kings and beggars, witches and wounded bears. Don’t break a promise.

Be bold, be bold, but not too bold, lest that your hearts blood should run cold.

She turned to me, head titled, her expression pure confusion. As though I had no reason to be afraid of a broken heart. She had no idea how dangerous a broken heart could be. You do, though. You know.

Sometimes it’s easier to be mad at the people close to us,” Vivi said, “than to be mad at the people who deserve it.

that’s one good thing about being obedient and faithful and good. People think you will never surprise them.

How does it feel?” he asked. “To be stuck in a fairy tale?” “How does it feel to be one?

I think about that story a lot. I think about it all the time. It’s the kind of thing you like. The wicked are slain, with swords no less. Vengeance is had. Boldness is rewarded. But what about all those girls, all those obedient girls who trusted and loved and wed and died? Weren’t they bold, too? I bet you don’t think so. I bet you think they were just stupid. That’s your problem in a nutshell. You’re judgmental. Everyone makes mistakes. They trust the wrong people. They fall in love. Not you, though. And that’s why it’s so hard to ask you for forgiveness. But I am. Asking. I mean, I am going to ask. I am going to try to explain how it happened and how sorry I am.

I know what you did,” he drawled, voice low, not at all sounding like he was asking a question. “Wicked girl. Yet you let your sister take the brunt of my ire. That wasn’t very nice, was it?

You're awful.' He said it as though he was delighted. 'And the worst part is that you believe otherwise.

Let's start with a love story. Or maybe it's another horror story. It seems like the difference is mostly in where the ending comes.

Everyone makes mistakes. They trust the wrong people. They fall in love.

Ah.” He sat down on the couch, looking stunned with lack of sleep. “And so you came here in the middle of the night?

He's handsome, but that makes his horribleness worse, somehow. As though he's taken something nice and made it awful. Being the single focus of his attention made me feel like a bug that a child was going to burn with a magnifying glass.

You must be particularly kind to people. Other kids can act like monsters, but not you.

How does it feel?' he asked. 'To be stuck in a fairy tale?' 'How does it feel to be one?' I countered...

Boldness is rewarded. But what about all those girls, all those obedient girls who trusted and loved and wed and died? Weren't they bold, too?

Perhaps you shouldn’t trust me with your heart. I might break it.

But for a moment it felt good to be awful, like looking down on the world from some great height.

But love was also transforming. I knew that from fairy tales. It could turn you back from a cat or a frog or a beast. Probably it could turn you into those things, too.

She turned to me, head tilted, her expression pure confusion. As though I had no reason to be afraid of a broken heart. She had no idea how dangerous a broken heart could be.

That’s your problem in a nutshell. You’re judgmental. Everyone makes mistakes. They trust the wrong people. They fall in love. Not you, though. And that’s why it’s so hard to ask you for forgiveness.

Be bold, be bold, but not too bold, lest that your heart's blood should run cold.