Sunrise on the Reaping

I remember the joy on Lenore Dove’s face when I gave her the poetry, the kisses that followed, and feel stronger. They can’t destroy what really matters

The walls come into focus. They’re not lined with instruments of pain but towering shelves of books. Thousands and thousands of volumes, floor to ceiling. In the corner, a golden staircase spirals up a column of white marble and leads to a balcony that runs around the room. A gold eagle perches on the railing at the top of the stairs.

This room is Lenore Dove’s dream come true. A world of words to wrap herself up in. Each book’s as precious as a person, she says, as it preserves someone’s thoughts and feelings long after they’re gone. The Covey have a collection of them, ancient things with cracked leather bindings and paper delicate as moth’s wings. The family treasure

One of the ghosts that inhabit Lenore Dove’s songs. She once told me about being arrested by the Peacekeepers back home, how frightened she was at first. Then she remembered she’d read that sometimes the only thing you can control is your attitude to a situation