The Thirteenth Tale, Diane Setterfield’s evocative novel on the connection and bond between siblings, revolves around two sets of twins: Margaret Lea and her deceased twin Moira, and tragedy-born twins Emmeline and Adeline March. The story is two-fold, one story in another story: you have Margaret while she goes about her task to write the life story of reclusive, mysterious author Vida Winter… and then you have Vida Winter narrating her story; Ms. Winter, the successful writer who’s never told the truth about who she is and where she came from. She’s finally coming clean.

I finished Janet Fitch’s Paint It Black just a few minutes ago: a darkly beautiful, haunting tale about model/actress Josie Tyrell and living through the tragedy that is her boyfriend’s suicide. Dealing with questions such as, do we really kill that which we love? and whose fault is it, really?, Paint It Black is a glimpse into the soul of one who has gone through love and loss and is struggling to find the way back.

“Your feelings may be the strongest but ours are the most tender. Man is more robust than woman, but he is not longer-lived. You have difficulties, and privations, and dangers enough to struggle with. It would be hard indeed if woman’s feelings were to be added to all this. All the privilege I claim for my own sex is that of loving longest, when existence or when hope is gone.”

—Anne Elliot in Jane Austen’s Persuasion

Her heart in her throat, she moved when he did– crushed him into her arms and clutched at his back, his own arms wrapping around her and his head buried in her neck.
She moved when he did– turned to face him as he faced her, fluid and desperate, trembling with emotion, his lips touching hers […]

I step close and put my arms around you, around your shoulders, and press you close to me, and I feel your arms go around my waist almost vaguely. I breathe in your scent, trying to memorize the width of your shoulders, the contrast of your height against mine, how my chin feels supported on […]

He kissed her, softly, tentatively, feather-light and undemanding. He opened his lips, slightly damp and took her upper lip between his own, sucking softly, so softly, the slightest press of soft lips.

I walk into the room, and just before I turn the bend I hear your voice, as ordinary and nonchalant as you please. I take a quick deep breath and walk towards you, knowing how I look in my jeans and my blouse, a necklace in the hollow of my throat.

Our days are numbered.
And every day I think of you and your vibrant spirit. Every day, I look into your eyes, full of the beauty of the universe. Every day, I yearn to hear your voice that speaks to me of all the joy in the world, of the overflowing happiness that only your words […]

He turned his back quickly, moved away. Doubled over in pain, shaking with his agony, a hand over his eyes and an arm crossed against his chest.
The world was crumbling, but all she could think was, I forgive you. The world was crumbling, but all she wanted to do was gather him into her arms […]

She smoothed her hair back, messy from fixing her room, and made sure she looked presentable enough even in shorts and a tee. There was no time to put on slippers, she couldn’t find her slippers, they were always missing. She hurried to the gate, bare feet padding on the wood, the marble, the concrete […]