Wicked Becomes You

There. That is the answer to this riddle. The promises I can make, and the one I can't. Gwen. I will never leave you willingly. Life is a risk, and so love is, as well. But I swear to God, you will not regret the gamble.

I trust only you and the dark always to look at me so honestly.

With so many willing, complex women in the world, he had little respect for men who fixated on girlishness. Innocence was, by definition, an absence of experience—character—knowledge. To desire that absence seemed rather deviant.

I've heard that sarcasm is no substitute for cleverness

You are...beyond my imagination. It's a wonder you can be touched at all.

She wished he could make her somehow indelibly his; that they were still children so they could cut their fingers and mingle their blood and know this meant something. She longed for some transformation more lasting than that wrought by the law and his name, some visceral change he might effect in her so that anyone on the street with one glance would know she was his.

Modesty, if you consider it, is the most unforgivable sort of falsehood: it's a lie that does damage to no one but yourself.

He knew himself well enough to know his own faults. Impatient and judgmental and stubborn and often too quick to act: he would try never to crush her, never to overwhelm her or bend her to his will, but if she did not demand only the best from him, it would happen. It might happen. Possibly.

and I said, 'That is why you don't climb mountains, Gwen.' But now I wonder. You aren't afraid of heights." "No", she said. "Not particularly." "Only missteps." She paused midstroke. Did he mean to imply this had been a misstep? "I was afraid," she said carefully. "For a very long time. But no longer." "So was I," he said, and lifted her chin and kissed her.

And he wondered, suddenly, what sort of divide it created between them, that he knew pieces of her that she had never shared with him - facts and stories and moments and memories to which she had no idea he was privy. He had collected them for so long, denying to himself that this acquisition was anything more than casual amusement, when in fact it was zealous, and jelaous besides; diwowning as accidental the fact that he never forgot a single remark she made, or that others made about her, and that he approved of these other people, or disdained them, according to their treatment of her. Such a lopsided intimacy existed between him and her. Inevitably, it created a chasm whose depth neither of them could know until they tried to chart it. Would this chasm prove impossible to bridge?

I love you,” she whispered. How horrifying, and how thrilling. It felt like a secret, a confession, a taunt: a dare to fate. But he did not seem to think it remarkable or daring. “I know,” he said, and his thumbs stroked her wrists, once. “We love each other. And look, darling: the world continues to turn.

For poor taste in husbands, her judgment rivaled Anne Boleyn's.

What modern art required was an imagination drawn to possibilities, rather than braced by smug presumptions.

For God's sake, Gwen," he said gently. "What matter that I love you. That's not the bit that's always been missing." Her lips parted. They wished to ask a question she could not bear to bring herself to ask. He was never less than honest. The answer, than, was bound to be wrong." So she did not ask it as a question. "You won't leave me," she said. He drew a long breath. "There," he said, quietly, fiercely. "That is the answer to this riddle. The promises I can make, and the one I can't. Gwen." His hands closed on her wrists, tightening until she swallowed and found her courage and looked up at him. "I will never leave you willingly. Life is a risk, and so love is, as well. But I swear to God, you will not regret the gamble.

I'll draw up a list. [...] You can give me a general idea, if you like: hair color, eye color-" "None!" "None? Bit of a tall order, there, Gwen. Aristocracy lacks for albinos.

She knew his secret: for all his wandering, his independence and his unorthodox ways, he took his responsibilities very seriously. He even borrowed others' responsibilities, making them his own simply because he thought this sort of service was owed to those whom he loved.

If you mean to be wicked, here’s my first piece of advice: never fish for compliments by demeaning yourself. Assume there is no place I’d rather be than by your side.” “But I know that’s not true.” “It doesn’t matter what my truth is. Know your worth and assume others do, too. Modesty, if you consider it, is the most unforgivable sort of falsehood: it’s a lie that does damage to no one but yourself.” She laughed. “Damage? I like that. Of course, you’re a heretic by profession. Most gentlemen consider modesty very becoming to a lady.” “No doubt they do,” he agreed. ... “The same gentlemen who liken ladies to flowers, no doubt.” ... “Others of us,” he said courteously as his hand dropped, “do not believe a woman’s main aim is to decorate a room.

Alex understood such discipline. He knew the rarity of it, and the cost. And on the rare occasions when he happened to touch her, he did wonder what else she might have been, if she had not been so determined to be typical.

He might have mocked himself if he hadn’t been tired of always mocking at what others took seriously. It was easier to mock, of course, but other people refrained, and not always because they lacked the imagination or sense of humor required to mock. Sometimes they refrained because they dared to long for something that was not easily grasped, something that might slip away if one did not pay it the proper respect—prayerful respect, the sort that moved one to remove one’s hat by the side of a grave, or to bow one’s head to soldiers marching off to war, even while damning the fat MPs that sent them to die. Life was not all for mockery. Nor was laughter. But it was harder to spot the prayerful moments when they called for laughter instead of tears. Tears spelled an end. Laughter could spell a beginning.

While the darkness of the interior concealed her body, the streetlight behind them illuminated the pale oval of her face, gilding her cheeks in shades of amber and ghostly blue. The effect was . . . arresting. Vermeer had used natural light to paint women in this way, faces emerging from the shadows, forcing the viewer’s eye to focus on what was most important: the look of grace. The mouth firmed in determination. The eyes poised to behold a revelation.

Why charm anyone? What a futile exercise it seemed now! People blew away like dandelion thistles, carried off by death or indifference or sheer, inexplicable whim. Why bother to grasp at them? One would only be disappointed eventually.

Everybody knew that he spent an hour each morning hopping about and kicking things like a maddened rabbit

If Gerry were dying of thirst and spotted Alex two feet from a well, he still would not think he required his younger brother's help. It simply would never occur to him that Alex might be able to provide it.