Download Radiant Darkness by Emily Whitman PDF

By Emily Whitman

He smiles. "Hello." it is a deep voice. i will consider it reverberate in my chest and echo down to my ft. i do know I may still go away, yet i do not are looking to. i would like to maintain my senses like this endlessly. i am all eye, all ear, all epidermis. Persephone lives within the so much beautiful position on this planet. yet her mother's a goddess, as overprotective as she is robust. Paradise has turn into a seize. simply whilst Persephone feels there is no probability of escaping the existence that is been deliberate for her, a mysterious stranger arrives. A stranger who can provide whatever more—something harmful and exciting—something that spurs Persephone to make a bold selection. a call which may wreck all she's come to like, even the earth itself. In a land the place a making a song river could make you put out of your mind your very identify, Persephone is compelled to find who—and what—she fairly is.

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Words? We pluck them out of the air, stringing them together like daisies in a chain. How wind feels when horses gallop through clouds, that’s what he tells me; the gentle tension you need for reins; what you can tell by watching a horse’s ears; the lakes beyond these cliffs, reflecting light that shifts so there’s no such thing as one blue. And I tell him how flowers sing when they blossom in your hand, and where the bees hide their honey-rich hives—each word joining the last until the chain encircles us like one more sense, as strong as sight or touch.

His haunches ripple with muscle. I go slowly, but I don’t hesitate. The horse lifts his shining head halfway and nickers. I come close enough now to touch his neck, but I don’t. I hold my hand out, open, the plum resting there. It seems riper than when I plucked it, its darkness reflecting light like the horse’s burnished coat. I hold still, waiting. The horse lowers his neck and takes the plum gently, barely brushing the skin of my palm with his mouth. His breath is warm and damp. It smells like grass and the soil beneath the grass and the rich warmth of his flesh.

Words? We pluck them out of the air, stringing them together like daisies in a chain. How wind feels when horses gallop through clouds, that’s what he tells me; the gentle tension you need for reins; what you can tell by watching a horse’s ears; the lakes beyond these cliffs, reflecting light that shifts so there’s no such thing as one blue. And I tell him how flowers sing when they blossom in your hand, and where the bees hide their honey-rich hives—each word joining the last until the chain encircles us like one more sense, as strong as sight or touch.

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