She built with the focus of a tiny architect. Each card placed at a perfect, trembling angle. She did not look at Jarw. She did not look at me. She looked only at the tower, as if it were the only honest thing in the room.
Her handwriting was small, angry, and beautiful. In the margin of one list, she had written: “Let them burn the books. I have already memorized the important parts.” vera jarw merida sat
Every sixty seconds, he would tap his ring—silver, worn thin—against the wooden arm of his chair. Tap. Then nothing. Tap. Then nothing. She built with the focus of a tiny architect
I looked from Jarw (waiting) to Merida (building) to Vera’s words (defiant). he would tap his ring—silver