“His hand was a claw, sharp enough to open her. She would be like all the others—Ruta Badowski, in her broken dancing shoes. Tommy Duffy, still with the dirt of his last baseball game under his nails. Gabriel Johnson, taken on the best day of his life. Or even Mary White, holding out for a future that never arrived. She’d be like all those beautiful, shining boys marching off to war, rifles at their hips and promises on their lips to their best girls that they’d be home in time for Christmas, the excitement of the game showing in their bright faces. They’d come home men, heroes with adventures to tell about, how they’d walloped the enemy and put the world right side up again, funneled it into neat lines of yes and no. Black and white. Right and wrong. Here and there. Us and them. Instead, they had died tangled in barbed wire in Flanders, hollowed by influenza along the Western Front, blown apart in no-man’s-land, writhing in trenches with those smiles still in place, courtesy of the phosgene, chlorine, or mustard gas. Some had come home shell-shocked and blinking, hands shaking, mumbling to themselves, following orders in some private war still taking place in their minds. Or, like James, they’d simply vanished, relegated to history books no one bothered to read, medals put in cupboards kept closed. Just a bunch of chess pieces moved about by unseen hands in a universe bored with itself.”

“I like where I live,” he said, landing behind the side pocket in his best Peter Pan pose. “You two women are too flaky to put my family in your hands. Just ask anyone here. They’d agree with me!” Ivy huffed and turned her back on him, muttering under her breath, but I could tell she was relieved her new landlord wasn’t her mom.”

“Violet handed the phone to Jay, who seemed remarkably composed considering they’d almost lost their closed-door privileges.They’d lost them before, once when they were eight and Violet’s mom had walked in to find them playing a game of “I’ll show you mind, if you show me yours,” which at that point consisted of Violet flashing her flat-as-a-pancake chest at Jay. Her moment had come in while the bottom of Violet’s shirt was pulled up in front of her face. They never got far enough for him to show his.”

“He leaned forward to rub his lips against her collarbone, up her throat, his lips soft, dry, his stubble adding just enough roughness to arouse. She inclined her head, offering, inviting, pleading. He gripped the back of her thighs, pulling her closer, his hands on her ass as he thrust into her, meeting her rhythm, finding their rhythm, the one they’d always been so good at. His hands were familiar on her skin, knew just where to touch. The cadence of his breathing, the taste of his mouth, all brought back how good they’d been together.”

“I was with her when she died,” Ned reminded the king. “She wanted to come home, to rest beside Brandon and Father.” He could hear her still at times. Promise me, she had cried, in a room that smelled of blood and roses. Promise me, Ned. The fever had taken her strength and her voice had been faint as a whisper, but when he gave her his word, the fear had gone out of his sister’s eyes. Ned remembered the way she smiled then, how tightly her fingers had clutched his as she gave up her hold on life, the rose petals spilling from her palm, dead and black. After that he remembered nothing. They had found him still holding her body, silent with grief. The little crannogman, Howland Reed, had taken her hand from his.”

“Delilah cried out, lifting her head. The only truth that mattered right now was how much she needed him. Powerful thighs flexed against her own as he began to move. He reached for her, pulling her up, against his chest, his hands clasping her breasts, mouth open on the back of her neck. He drew hard, pumping up into her relentlessly, meeting her rocking motion back to him. Her head fell back on his shoulder, her own hands latching over his. Their fingers wove together, their bodies moving as if they’d been lovers for years.As if they’d been made for each other.”