Page 145 of The Professor's Wife

Sometimes I read aloud to keep my throat from closing up. Sometimes I whispered the passages like prayers until I forgot whether they were Seneca’s or mine.

I hated him for it.

Hated Oliver.

Hated Seneca.

Hated myself for finding even the smallest comfort in words meant to cage me.

But comfort came anyway.

The oil lamps lived and died in cycles.

The pad beneath me grew stiff with sweat, tears, and the grit of my own skin. The chain rubbed my ankle raw until the flesh cracked and scabbed.

And the books never left my side.

I hated them.

I needed them.

When I thought of Rowe, escape, or how much I hated Oliver, Seneca’s voice pressed against mine.

Was this wisdom?

Or was this exactly what Oliver wanted?

When Oliver returned again, I didn’t look at him with fire anymore.

I barely looked at him at all.

He crouched as always, patient, the way a tutor waited for a child to answer.

“Tell me about death, Daisy.”

My lips moved before my mind could catch them.

“He who fears death will never live.”

Oliver smiled, satisfied. His hand brushed my cheek, and this time, I didn’t flinch.

My body remained still beneath his touch.

“Do you see now?” he whispered. “How much better you can be when you let go of resistance?”

My eyes blurred with tears I didn’t feel fall.

“I see.”

I knew it was what he wanted to hear.

What frightened me was how easily I had said it.

Later, alone again, I curled into myself and clutched the book against my chest.

I whispered lines into the dark without choosing them anymore. They fell out of me with every shallow breath.

“What need is there to weep over parts of life? The whole of it calls for tears.”