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503 pages, Paperback
First published June 6, 2017
“Facing a pistol-wielding murderer does tend to put parents further down the list of things to be intimidated by.”
“Marguerite, Lili, and Violette.” He smiled, and the worry in his eyes bordered on agony. “My flowers.” “Fleurs du mal,”Summer 1947, Eve was waiting again. You see, Eve was good at waiting. She’d waited more than thirty years to shoot René Bordelon, after all, and ever since then she had spent a good deal of time waiting under a killing sun for game. Shooting René had taught Eve just how much she liked to stalk, hunt, and kill dangerous things.
Eve heard herself saying, and shivered. “What?” “Baudelaire. We are not flowers to be plucked and shielded, Captain. We are flowers who flourish in evil.”
His face was hard against mine at the final shudder that speared us both, and I felt a tear slide between our pressed cheeks. I didn’t know which of us it had come from. But I didn’t care. It hadn’t come from grief, and that was enough.I cried so much reading this. I could blame it on the sensitive topics of war, ptsd, unwanted pregnancy, torture, misogyny, physical abuse, addiction. But in the end, I think it's just how real it is- that even when it ends in happiness and peace, everyone is still left a little bit broken.
Steel blades such as you and I do not measure against standards for ordinary women.
“What about your war?”
Because everyone’s war was different.