“There you are,” he said, extending a hand. “My sweet, pure Lisey.”
“What promise?”
“Someone who remembers when you used to leave milk and cookies by the furnace for the ‘house mouse.’ You were six. You wore a nightgown with ducks on it.” lisey sweet pure taboo
She was seventeen, pure in the way only someone sheltered could be—hair in a braid, cheeks dusted with faint freckles, a collection of pressed flowers hidden inside a dictionary. She believed in good manners and quiet evenings. She believed her uncle when he said the basement was unsafe. “There you are,” he said, extending a hand