For years he’d held before him the image of his lady in white. It was for that image he’d climbed mountains and gotten lost in caves and ruined his favorite shirt. Perhaps she’d turned out to be odd and distant, but he’d told himself that was not her fault. It hadn’t crushed the image of a maiden of surpassing virtue. Even her flaws were heroic flaws. She was unearthly, ingenious, insane, radiant. A goddess. Brierly wasn’t the only one who could create figments.
-Sarah E. Morin
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