Never by Jessa Hastings EPUB & PDF – eBook Details Online
- Status: Available for Free Download
- Author: Jessa Hastings
- Language: English
- Genre: Fairy Tale Fantasy
- Format: PDF / EPUB
- Size: 3 MB
- Price: Free
There is a boy of legend in the tales passed down in my family. He glides
on the coattails of the sun, rides the wind, and freedom runs through his
veins. His heart, they say, is wild, but in every version of any story I’ve ever
been told about him, never did I hear that his heart was untamable.
A captor of the imagination and a liberator of the soul, they say about
him. My grandmother, she knew him, and her mother before her. My own
mother as well. Our family’s legacy is laced with tales of him and who he is
and the adventures they had with him…some terrifying, others exhilarating,
but always, always beautiful.
Beauty is funny though, don’t you think? Because beautiful doesn’t
necessarily always mean good, and just because something doesn’t make
you happy doesn’t preclude it from being beautiful either. An impertinent
lesson I won’t realise for quite some time though.
My grandmother, Wendy, she would tell me stories of her and this boy,
how he came to her one quiet night in 1910 when her little brothers were
being particularly boisterous. He tapped on her window—as she always
knew he would because her mother’s mother said so and she believed her—
he sprinkled gold dust on her, and away they went. Happy thoughts and all
You know the story.
The boy, he took her to a faraway land tucked behind a star, where
pirates were still true, mermaids didn’t hide, and fairies flew through the air
like autumn leaves on a windy day. He took my mother there, just like he
took my grandmother and my great-grandmother.
Just as he would come for me.
I’ve been told these stories since before I could remember. They were
embedded into my brain without my consent, actually. Magic was all
around me whether I liked it or not, and I did not. Like my mother before
me, I consider myself a learned woman and far too old for bedtime stories.
That boy, the one from their stories, they say he came for my greatgrandmother Mary when she was twelve; he came for Wendy when she was
thirteen, my mother when she was thirteen. I should be the same, so they
And that was the story they’d tell me as they tucked me in at night all
through my younger youth.
Sometimes my grandmother, sometimes my great-grandmother (but
never my mother, because she said the stories would rot my mind).
“He’ll be on his way for you soon, I imagine, Daphne.” My grandmother
would smile at me every night of my childhood as she’d leave the window
unlatched for me so that he could enter.
But see, the boy never came.
Ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen—the years trickled by like rain on
windows, and yet my windows, which remained unlatched, also remained
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