Heather

“She murmured, “Keeping me alive…intact…just so I can work their damned stele and get Cohort blood…all over my hands. Gun to your neck…blood on my hands…saints against God.”
“Don’t talk,” said Crown roughly. “You’re spouting nonsense.”
“You haven’t talked sense in months.” She burbled with coughing again. “You’re the one facing the dark night of the soul, Princess.”
“Love that melodrama. Is there Eighth somewhere in your family tree?”
“Gave yourself up… gave all of us up…for what? Propaganda and a leash…promise of salvation without understanding the sin. Hect and the hideous Sixth House mechanism…and now they are taken too. For what? Our lives? Is this living, Corona?”
“You’ve never lived a single day in your life,” said Corona bitterly. “It’d be against regulations.”
The Captain said, “Name and rank: Captain Judith Deuteros. House…Second,” and Crown scrubbed at her face with her hand, little licks of hair escaping from their elastic and curling over her forehead like light. The Captain broke off and said, “You think you’re walking the tightrope with fast talking and your face…steeled myself to the talking long ago. But you’re slipping, Princess…can’t save you from that…Hect, my hands are too filthy to save you…”
It was funny to think of anyone wanting to save Camilla. The Captain’s eyes passed restlessly to Nona. Sweat was beading on her temples. The Captain focused, and said hoarsely, “Ninth, where is the mercy of the Tomb? Where is your sword in the coffin? Who are your masters now, and who do you master? Where is my cavalier, Reverend Daughter? Where is yours?”
Her voice rose. “Because I saw her—in the waves—she was there in the grey water—I saw them all—they hurt me—where is my hunger? I eat and eat and eat without surcease, my green thing, my green-and-breathing thing…”
― Tamsyn Muir, Nona the Ninth

“But you didn’t even get me a six-month birthday present,” she whispered pathetically. “I didn’t get the beach party, or a cake, or any dogs.”
“Honey of course I got you a birthday present,” said Pyrrha instantly. “I bought one the day of the broadcast. I went and got you a new T-shirt—the expensive kind, not the ones that dissolve when you wash them. I hid it under the sink.”
Nona sucked in a breath. “Tell me about it,” she whispered. “Describe it exactly.”
“Uh,” said Pyrrha, and flicked her eyes up at Paul. “Okay, so, I hadn’t cleared this with the powers that be, but it was a picture of a moustache—like the facial hair, but a cartoon?—and then there were words below it. Look, you had to see it, I’m not sure I can describe it in a way that…”
“Pyrrha, I want to know what it said.”
Now Pyrrha avoided Paul’s gaze.
“It advertised cheap moustache rides,” said Pyrrha. “We’re talking low prices.”
Nona started to cry softly, overwhelmed.
Paul said, “Palamedes wouldn’t have let her wear that outside the house.” Then: “Camilla wouldn’t have let her wear it inside, either.”
“Yeah, but what about you?” said Pyrrha.
“Her choice,” said Paul. “I think moustache rides should be free.”
“It would have been my favourite present except for the handkerchief,” said Nona breathlessly. “I’m going to go back and fetch it. I’ll remember. I’ll make myself remember. And I’ll wear it all the time, inside the house and outside the house, and then you’ll know it’s really me. I’m not going to be gone forever…I’m ready. Im ready. Let’s go.”
― Tamsyn Muir, Nona the Ninth

“You were screaming. I wanted you to stop, I wanted … I wanted you. I wanted you like a caveman wants a wildfire … or the sun. I thought you were going to take me, somehow. Purge me. Use me as an instrument. But you didn’t say anything … I was babbling, Show me. Come on. I’m ready. You kept screaming and screaming … like a baby in pain. So I tried to hurt you—I did hurt you. I reached out for you, and it hurt you … but I wasn’t strong enough. The caveman. The wildfire. The Neolithic priest staggering in front of the falling star.”
― Tamsyn Muir, Nona the Ninth

“You told me, Sleep, I’ll wake you in the morning.
I asked, What is morning? and you said,
When everyone who fucked with me I’d dead.

When everyone we loved has gone or fled,
That’s morning. Empty’s just another word for clean.
Let’s put this first draft dream of mine to bed.

I the appointed hour
I’ll pull up your sheets. I’ll kill the light,
Lie down beside you; die; and sleep the night.

This time will be the time we get it right;
Forgiveness not so hard, nor anger long;
Our graves will be less deep, our lies less true

You held aloft the sword.
I still love y”
― Tamsyn Muir, Nona the Ninth