Atop the wings was a folded piece of paper, addressed to the New York Institute. After splashing water on her face, Maryse had taken the letter and read it. It was short - one sentence - and was signed with a name in a handwriting oddly familiar to her, for in it there was an echo of Valentine’s cursive, the flourishes of his letters, the strong, steady hand. But it was not Valentine’s name. It was his son’s.
Jonathan Christopher Morgenstern.
She held it out to Brother Zachariah. He took it from her fingers and opened it, reading, as she had, the single word of Ancient Greek scrawled in elaborate script across the top of the page.
Erchomai, it said.
I am coming.
So I just signed up to review some galleys…
idk why I did that though?? I have no time - I have my editing internship and then I’m like WAYYYYYYYYYY behind on the reviews of books I’ve aLREADY READ.
Like why do I do the things.
All I do is read.
And it’s da bomb.com
Noah Shaw character poster. Bigger version [x]
If you say “old sport” three times in front of your mirror Gatsby will appear and awkwardly hit on your wife