The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue

What is a person, if not the marks they leave behind?

There is a freedom, after all, in being forgotten

Books, she has found, are a way to live a thousand lives—or to find strength in a very long one.

“But isn’t it wonderful,” she says, “to be an idea?”

The old gods may be great, but they are neither kind nor merciful. They are fickle, unsteady as moonlight on water, or shadows in a storm. If you insist on calling them, take heed: be careful what you ask for, be willing to pay the price. And no matter how desperate or dire, never pray to the gods that answer after dark.
Estele Magritte, 1642–1719

the wood smooth where his hands are rough, delicate where he is large

Il était une fois,”

Once upon a time. This is how the story starts.

Seven freckles. One for every love she’d have, that’s what Estele had said, when the girl was still young.

One for every life she’d lead.

One for every god watching over her.

Now, they mock her, those seven marks. Promises. Lies. She’s had no loves, she’s lived no lives, she’s met no gods, and now she is out of time.

A girl is running for her life