Chapter Ninety-Nine
In another reading room, shortly thereafter, Rosella could be found scratching her impressions onto her sheaf of paper. What would she do with this, should the snowstorm finally cease, the clocks start ticking, reality resume, and they all fall from paradise? Would her old jealousies resurface, impelling her to publish her fictionalised memoir as a way of throwing Genevra over—using her, as she had been used? Or could they somehow lasso the impossible, preserving their fragile three-headed love out there in the fires of the real world? In which case, she could publish her thoughts as a beacon for shipwrecked souls—a bible for a new century.
She read over what she’d just written, then inscribed another word, feeling, in the depression of the pen nib into the rough paper, an existential mark-making in the history of the future.