Crimson Moth Quotes

Some people are determined to live out their own personal tragedies.

The hunted had fallen for the hunter.

You are not the things that happened to you, Gideon.

But which character was she—the heroine, the villain, or the fool? The fool.

Your laugh is like a fuse,” he said. “It lights you up.” Rune’s heart thudded. No one had ever told her that before.

In forgiving him, a strange thing happened: Rune found forgiveness for herself, too. For what she’d done to Nan. The thing she’d needed all this time was right there inside her.

Rune was a deer, and he was a hunter. Taking her measure, noting every detail and flaw, trying to decide if she would be worth the hunt.

To play by the rules when everyone else disregards them—that is foolishness.

Every time Gideon looked at the young heiress, she reminded him of the sea: steal-your-breath beautiful on the surface, with the promise of untold depths beneath.

What things there are to write, if one could only write them! My mind is full of gleaming thoughts; gay moods and mysterious, moth-like meditations hover in my imagination, fanning their painted wings. They would make my fortune if I could catch them; but always the rarest, those freaked with azure and the deepest crimson, flutter away beyond my reach.

I hate you, Gideon Sharpe. I hate you so much, it hurts. And if you don’t open this door, i”ll go on hating you forever...

The mad head of the house was rotting, and night was dragging her wings across the moon, tracing filigree on the floors. In the attic, more black moths were dancing because it was cold, because it was dark. Because they were hungry. For the butterfly.

It was almost as if he were a weapon specifically designed to compromise her.

She was like a deer making eyes at the wolf that wanted to eat her for lunch. Stupid deer.

Gideon was her perfect rival; a deadly enemy to outwit. Without him, Rune could only be half of her full potential. It was why, deep down, she wanted him to come for her. She ached for the challenge of him. She needed to finish what lay unfinished between them.

They see us as a contamination of what is natural and good. They fear our magic the way they fear disease.

His name on her lips sent a tremor through him. His hands clenched. He wouldn’t be able to hold out much longer.

The point is to let me give you this one small thing, because I couldn’t give you the rest.

Sitting on Rosa's moth-littered bed, he felt a resurgence of all the aches and inspirations of those days when his life had revolved around nothing but Art, when snow fell like the opening piano notes of the Emperor Concerto, and feeling horny reminded him of a passage from Nietzsche, and a thick red-streaked dollop of crimson paint in an otherwise uninteresting Velazquez made him hungry for a piece of rare meat.

One of us thinks ourself too good for the other. But it’s not me.

The first touch of our lips behind crimson drapes. The touch that should have been impossible. A collision of worlds, born of chaos and breaking, that had somehow been quiet as a moth taking flight.

His gentleness snuck past her defenses, unlocking the deadbolts inside her. Letting the enemy in.

Rune’s nose prickled. One of these days, she would gently suggest to her friend not to dab so much perfume on …

she reminded him of the sea: steal-your-breath beautiful on the surface, with the promise of untold depths beneath.

Are you so determined to misunderstand me?

I’ve had better,” he said, staring Harrow down. “You were right; it was no chore. But I’m not about to repeat the endeavor anytime soon.” The lie sank inside him like poison. “She’s a pretty face, nothing more.

I remember the sound of your laugh,” he said as the back door of the house came into view. “It pulled me like a magnet toward the beach, where I found the most beautiful girl in the world standing on the shore.” Rune’s footsteps slowed as they approached the door. His stopped altogether. “When I saw Alex at your side, I knew exactly who you were: Rune Winters. The girl Alex never shut up about. A girl who was entirely off-limits, because my little brother found her first.

I don’t know how to dance to your songs,” he said. “I don’t have the esteem of your friends. I don’t use seventeen pieces of silverware at dinner.” He let go of her hair, and it billowed out, catching in the wind once more. “I have no means of expanding your inheritance.” He knew he was walking a fine line, reminding her of the reasons they made no sense. That this charade they were playing was a weak one. But if the goal was to be vulnerable, to entice her to be vulnerable, too, he needed to speak the truth. “People like you are impossible,” she said. “I don’t care about those things.” He almost rolled his eyes. “Of course you do.” “Then why are we here? If I’m so shallow—all trappings and no substance—what are you doing with me? Why would someone like you want someone like me?” Gideon opened his mouth to respond, only he didn’t know the answer. He studied her, hair ablaze in the setting sun. Gray eyes like molten steel.

Yesterday, she said, referring to the collective past of her tribe, the people of these forests knew the secret. They made the finest silk thread from the cocoon of a beautiful sleeping butterfly. The women reeled the silk thread on the spinning wheel, slowly and gently. Such delicate work it was, that the silk remembered, at last, the moth which had created it. And the women were awed at the silver shine of the silk produced. If the silk is so divine, they thought, what must be the beauty of the butterfly waiting to be born? They stopped breaking the cocoons and looked for the crimson wings of the butterflies emerging from the torn nests of raw silk. The sight took them aback. They became sages and storytellers. My mother’s mother was one of them.

Yesterday,’ she said, referring to the collective past of her tribe, ‘the people of these forests knew the secret. They made the finest silk thread from the cocoon of a beautiful sleeping butterfly. The women reeled the silk thread on the spinning wheel, slowly and gently. Such delicate work it was, that the silk remembered, at last, the moth which had created it. And the women were awed at the silver shine of the silk produced. If the silk is so divine, they thought, what must be the beauty of the butterfly waiting to be born? They stopped breaking the cocoons and looked for the crimson wings of the butterflies emerging from the torn nests of raw silk. The sight took them aback. They became sages and storytellers..

It wasn’t supposed to feel like this. Nothing was supposed to feel this good. This right. As if there was nothing to be ashamed of. As if—just maybe—he could be worthy of a girl like her.

It only made sense to pursue someone easier and less dangerous than Gideon Shape.

Rune flung her arms around him, clinging tightly. He pulled her close, holding her for a long time. It was there, in his arms, that Rune realized for the first time she could trust Alexander Sharpe with her life.

He started sketching. The black charcoal burst across the white page as he thought of Rune on the love seat: her rose-gold hair flaming in the light of the lamps; her skin flushing as his fingers traced her; her pulse stumbling as he leaned in to kiss her.

You’re saying Rune could, for example, use my blood to do magic?” asked Alex. Verity nodded. “She’s capable of powerful spells. She’s simply working with a diminished resource. Basic spells like Mirages can be done using old blood, but the more powerful spells require the sacrifice of fresh blood.” Alex glanced at Rune, his eyes sparking. “No,” said Rune, seeing the thoughts in his head. “Absolutely not.” “Why? If it would help you—” “You would bear the scars.” If Rune were to take Alex’s blood, even with his permission, silver casting scars would appear where she’d cut him. It would put him at too great a risk.

Some desperate emotion flashed across Alex’s face, and guilt settled like a stone in Gideon’s gut. Alex’s hands dropped to his sides. “People like Rune don’t end up with people like you.” The guilt evaporated. Gideon knew precisely what Alex meant. People like him were damaged. Dirty. People like him didn’t belong in the ballrooms of people like Alex and Rune. His fists coiled. “That so?” “Yes.” Alex’s golden eyes flashed like electricity. “Enlighten me. What type of people do girls like Rune end up with? Men like you?” Gideon raised his fists. “Men who stand on the sidelines, pining in the shadows, too afraid to go after what they want? Have you gotten so used to being handed everything in life that you think she’ll hand herself over to you, too?” Alex slugged him. Pain exploded in Gideon’s jaw.

Gideon paused, studying her. If he and Rune Winters were truly courting—which would never happen—this is exactly the argument he would have with her.

For a girl who hates reading, you own a lot of books.

His hands clenched. He wouldn’t be able to hold out much longer. “My pleasure,

She let go of the ladder and surged upward, gasping for breath when she hit the surface. The moment she did, two firm hands grabbed her and dragged her out.

You’re right. Some people are determined to live out their own personal tragedies.

I was telling the girls at Charlotte’s luncheon about it,” she said, tucking her hand into his elbow and leading him deeper into the room. As if she truly didn’t realize he was about to arrest her. “Naturally, I’ll need to give them an update.

I’m not sure why you’re angry at me,” she said to his back. “If Penitent children are begging in the street, it’s the Republic you should blame. The Good Commander made their families outcasts for aiding witches.” Gideon stopped. “Or don’t you remember that the Commander promised us a better world?” she continued before he could respond. “One where no one lives in squalor.

People like you and your grandmother flourished under the Reign of Witches, when things were worse than they are now. So don’t pretend you care. You didn’t then, and you don’t now. The Sister Queens or the Good Commander … it’s all the same to you.” She winced, as if he’d struck her. Seeing it, the fight went out of him. Fuck. That was too far.

She wished she knew a spell to disappear for a week straight.

His kisses continued, increasing in urgency, trailing over her skin. Was this real, or were they still pretending?

She’s simply altered her appearance.

Her monthly cycle had started.

Gideon, the thought of you inside that building … it felt like being held underwater.” She lowered her gaze to the pulse at the base of his throat. “Like being starved of air.

But it wasn’t only her physical attributes that had him spinning. It was her kindness. Her thoughtfulness. Her wildness. It was her willingness to argue with him. If he wasn’t careful, he might fall in love with her.

He wants to look for my casting scars.

I hate you, Gideon Sharpe. I hate you so much, it hurts. And if you don't open this door, I'll go on hating you forever...

I remember the sound of your laugh,” he said as the back door of the house came into view. “It pulled me like a magnet toward the beach, where I found the most beautiful girl in the world standing on the shore.

You spend your days looking out for everyone else, but who’s looking out for you?

remember the sound of your laugh,” he said as the back door of the house came into view. “It pulled me like a magnet toward the beach, where I found the most beautiful girl in the world standing on the shore.

There was a noise like a whip-crack. Snape stumbled; he was wearing a long, lace-trimmed dress and a towering hat topped with a moth-eaten vulture, and swinging a huge crimson handbag from his hand. There

One Day Eight Years Ago - Poem by Jibanananda Das It was heard: to the post-mortem cell he had been taken; last night—in the darkness of Falgoon-night When the five-night-old moon went down— he was longing for death. His wife lay beside—the child therewith; hope and love abundant__in the moonlight—what ghost did he see? Why his sleep broke? Or having no sleep at all since long—he now has fallen asleep in the post-mortem cell. Is this the sleep he’d longed for! Like a plagued rat, mouth filled with crimson froth now asleep in the nook of darkness; And will not ever awake anymore. ‘Never again will wake up, never again will bear the endless—endless burden of painful waking—’ It was told to him when the moon sank down—in the strange darkness by a silence like the neck of a camel that might have shown up at his window side. Nevertheless, the owl stays wide awake; The rotten still frog begs two more moments in the hope for another dawn in conceivable warmth. We feel in the deep tracelessness of flocking darkness The unforgiving enmity of the mosquito-net all around; The mosquito loves the stream of life awake in its monastery of darkness. From sitting in blood and filth, flies fly back into the sun; How often we watched moths and flies hovering in the waves of golden sun. The close-knit sky, as if—as it were, some scattered lives, possessed their hearts; The wavering dragonflies in the grasp of wanton kids Fought for life; As the moon went down, in the impending gloom With a noose in hand you approached the aswattha, alone, by yourself, For you’d learnt a human would ne’er live the life of a locust or a robin The branch of aswattha Had it not raged in protest? And the flock of fireflies Hadn’t they come and mingled with the comely bunch of daffodils? Hadn’t the senile blind owl come over and said: ‘the age-old moon seems to have been washed away by the surging waters? Splendid that! Let’s catch now rats and mouse! ’ Hadn’t the owl hooted out this cherished affair? Taste of life—the fragrance of golden corn of winter evening— seemed intolerable to you; — Content now in the morgue In the morgue—sultry with the bloodied mouth of a battered rat! Listen yet, tale of this dead; — Was not refused by the girl of love, Didn’t miss any joy of conjugal life, the bride went ahead of time and let him know honey and the honey of reflection; His life ne’er shivered in demeaning hunger or painful cold; So now in the morgue he lies flat on the dissection table. Know—I know woman’s heart—love—offspring—home—not all there is to things; Wealth, achievement, affluence apart there is some other baffling surprise that whirls in our veins; It tires and tires, and tires us out; but there is no tiring in the post mortem cell and so, there he rests, in the post mortem cell flat on the dissection table. Still I see the age-old owl, ah, Nightly sat on the aswattha bough Winks and echoes: ‘The olden moon seems to be carried away by the flooding waters? That’s splendid! Let’s catch now rats and mouse—’ Hi, granny dear, splendid even today? Let me age like you—and see off the olden moon in the whirlpool at the Kalidaha; Then the two of us will desert life’s abundant reserve.

I will never stop hunting you, Rune Winters. No matter where you go, I will come for you.

constant and safe. Gentle and kind.

If you truly love me, said Nan from the other side of the door, you will spare me the agony of watching them kill you. Rune’s eyes burned with tears; her throat choked on sobs. Please, darling. Do this for me.

You can’t undo the past. You can only go forward and make things better in the future.

He escaped what the rest of us could not.

Isn’t that the point of art—to tame the monsters in us?

Your laugh is like a fuse,” he said. “It lights you up.

I’m in love with him.

But she knew the fear of not having him now, and she suddenly wanted all of him. Body and soul.

Looking at him was like watching an opera she didn’t like. One of those ridiculous comedies where the character gets everything she ever dreamed of and lives happily ever after. Those operas were so unrealistic, they always made Rune want to cry. Or stand up and leave.

It was the initial sign of a witch: at the onset of your first bleeding, you didn’t bleed red, but black.

It was why Rune never cut herself. She couldn’t afford to let them find the scars.

And after we’re done fighting, I’ll take you to bed, and we’ll reconcile. In fact, I think we should fight every day just so we can make up every night.

I’m in love with him. Instead of getting Gideon Sharpe out of her system tonight, Rune had gone and gotten herself addicted. The hunted had fallen for the hunter.

You have never been more beautiful than this moment.

But she knew the fear of not having him now, and she suddenly wanted all of him. Body and soul. It was a dangerous feeling. One that could cost her everything.

IT WAS UNNATURAL, THE way he wanted her. Like nothing else in the world mattered more than bringing her upstairs, peeling her out of those riding leathers, and guiding her down to the bed. Like nothing mattered more than her.

He’d spent the last two hours making it for her, feeling slightly ill as he sewed every petal. Roses always brought the painful memories rushing back. But Harrow’s advice—to woo Rune—kept ringing through his head, and his mother could never resist the silk roses his father used to make her after they argued.

Sadly, though, people don’t always know what’s best for them. Sometimes they need us to step in and protect them from themselves.

When a witch drew blood by cutting her skin, the magic used to cast a spell discolored the scar, turning it silver. It was why casting scars were considered beautiful during the Reign of Witches.

His body buzzed at the lack of her. As if Rune in his arms was the only true thing in the world, and until she was there again, everything

Rune has been out rescuing witches all night. They say the Crimson Moth only works beneath the cover of darkness.

The way you make me feel is …” She hugged the bundle of clothes tighter. “I’m afraid it’s something I could get used to. Something I could need.

I’m afraid you’ll be the end of me, Gideon.” And then, much more quietly: “Maybe you already are.

Thank you for understanding.” “I’ll always understand,” Verity whispered.