At the age of three my grand aunt proclaimed her independence by categorically refusing to have her feet bound, resolutely tearing off the bandages as fast as they were applied.
My mom had five kids. And she came home after working three jobs, and I'd rub her feet. We'd all rub her feet. We were lucky to get any time with her.
My mother was the kind of person who was very much part of her tribe and very much a satellite of her tribe. She was the girl who left her family at the age of 17 and went to Washington. My mother was orphaned at three and then was brought up by my aunt Goldie. So, yes she belonged, but there was a part of her that didn't.
~When Valentina was not even 1 month old, my aunt [gave me the best advice]: 'Put her to sleep yourself every night. Sing to her and cradle her in your arms and sit by her side - every night. Because one day you won't be able to, and it's going to happen really fast.~
He leaped to his feet, grabbed her, and spun her to face him. "No more bullshit, Sin. Feel what you've done." He took her hand and pressed it to her chest, where her heart was pounding painfully fast. So was his. "Let yourself feel something for someone else." ~Con
Her eyes were distant, and she seemed to be listening to that voice that first told her the story, a mother, sister, or aunt. Then her voice, like her singing, cut through the crickets and crackling fire.
When a homemaking aunt scolds a niece for following her evangelistic passion instead of domestic pursuits, her reply is interesting. First, she clarifies that God's individual call on her doesn't condemn those in more conventional roles. Then, she says she can no more ignore the cry of the lost than her aunt can the cry of her child.
The emotions of men, however, were of a different order. They were pesky annoyances, small dust devils at her feet. Her knack for causing heartbreak was innate, but her vitality often made people forgive her romantic misdeeds.
My grandmother's feet had been bound when she was two years old. Her mother...first wound a piece of white cloth about twenty feet long round her feet, bending all the toes except the big toe inward and under the sole. Then she placed a large stone on top to crush the arch.
My grand affair appears settled, for America is certain of her independence, humanity has gained her cause, and liberty will never be without a place of refuge.
One of the heavy marble busts that lined the higher shelves had slid free and was falling toward her; she ducked out of its way, and it hit the floor inches from where she'd been standing, leaving a sizable dent in the floor. A second later Jace's arms were around her and he was lifting her off her feet. She was too surprized to struggle as he carried her over to the broken window and dumped her unceremoniously out of it.
Qhuinn gave in immediately, as he was categorically incapable of denying the female anything — most certainly not one of her hugs. They were even better than her lasagna.
I don't get carried away by looks; only her character can sweep me off my feet. But for that I need to know her talk to her.
[On refusing to allow photos to be published of herself and her children:] A lady's name should appear in print only three times, at her birth, marriage, and death.
What I really tried to do with Helen was make her show this sad side of her. She was married off at 16, was so young and living in this castle that can't leave because of how she looks, and married to a man she hates and three times her age.
And often it would be a woman who was in her 70s or 80s who would win the beauty contest, because bound feet never age.
He made a sound like a choked laughed before he reached out and pulled her into her arms. She was aware of Luke watching them from the window, but she shut her eyes resolutely and buried her face against Jace's shoulder. He smelled of salt and blood, and only when his mouth came close to her ear did she understand what he was saying, and it was the simplest litany of all: her name, just her name.