“Peasants love their Saints. They hunger for the miraculous. And yet they do not love the Grisha. Why do you think that is?”
“I hadn’t thought about it,” I said. I opened the book. Someone had written my name inside the cover. I flipped a few pages. Sankt Petyr of Brevno. Sankt Ilya in Chains. Sankta Lizabeta. Each chapter began with a full-page illustration, beautifully rendered in brightly colored inks.
“I think it is because the Grisha do not suffer the way the Saints suffer, the way the people suffer.”
Falling asleep on the couch while waiting for him to come home. He gets in, calling your name, and amused when he finds you, book almost covering your face, your glasses still perched on your nose. He sheds himself of his coat and duffel, then makes his way to you, gently peeling the book away and removing your glasses from your eyes, murmuring 'thas' probably not comfortable, pet, c'mon let's get you to bed...' (sorry I was daydreaming about this today! xo)