The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue by V.E. Schwab

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Snippets

Page 80: “It was a mistake. Please. Let me go.” The knife wags like a finger. “Not until you’ve paid.”
“I don’t have any money.” “That’s all right,” says the second man, drawing closer. “Thieves pay in flesh.” She tries to tear free, but the grip on her arms is iron as the knife comes to rest against the laces of her dress, plucking them like strings. And when she twists again, she is no longer trying to get free, simply trying to reach the boning knife inside the pocket of her stolen coat. Twice her fingers brush the wooden hilt before she manages to catch it. She drives the blade down and back into the first man’s thigh, feels it sink into the meat of his leg.

Page 100: It was, for Addie, the second month of an affair. A passionate affair, to be sure, but only because time is a luxury she can’t afford. Sure, she dreams of sleepy mornings over coffee, legs draped across a lap, inside jokes and easy laughter, but those comforts come with the knowing. There can be no slow build, no quiet lust, intimacy fostered over days, weeks, months. Not for them. So she longs for the mornings, but she settles for the nights, and if it cannot be love, well, then, at least it is not lonely.

Page 109: “Go to the docks if you plan to sell your wares,” she scolds. And at first, Addie doesn’t know what the woman means. Her pockets are empty. She’s nothing to sell. But when she says as much, the woman gives her such a look, and says, “You’ve got a body, don’t you?” Her face flushes as she understands. “I’m not a whore,” she says, and the woman flashes a cold smirk. “Aren’t we proud?” she says, as Addie rises, turns to go. “Well,” the woman calls after in a crow-like caw, “that pride won’t fill your belly.”

Page 110: Even when a man comes up to her, one hand already roving, as if testing fruit. “How much?” he asks in a gruff voice. And she has no idea what a body is worth, or if she is willing to sell it. When she does not answer, his hands grow rough, his grip grows firm. “Ten sols,” she says, and the man lets out a bark of laughter. “What are you, a princess?” “No,” she answers, “a virgin.” There were nights, back home, when Addie dreamed of pleasure, when she conjured the stranger beside her in the dark, felt his lips against her breasts, imagined her hand was his as it slipped between her legs.

Page 398: It is only sex. At least, it starts that way. He is a thing to be gotten out of her system. She is a novelty to be enjoyed. She will not feel anything but his lips on her skin, his hands tangled in hers, the weight of him against her. Small promises, but ones she does not keep. It is only sex. And then it is not sex.

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