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“The House had a taste for romance novels. Nesta stayed up later than she should have to finish the one it had left the day before, and when she returned to her room that evening, another was waiting. 'Don't tell me you somehow read these?' She leafed through the volume on her nightstand. In answer, two more books thumped on the surface. Each one utterly filthy. Nesta let out a small chuckle. 'It must get awfully dull up here.' A third book plopped atop the others. Nesta laughed again, a rusty, hoarse sound. She couldn't remember the last time she'd laughed. A true, belly-deep laugh. Maybe before her mother had died. She'd certainly had nothing to laugh about once they'd fallen into poverty. Nesta nodded toward the desk. 'No dinner tonight?' Her bedroom door only swung open to reveal the dimly lit hallway. 'I've had enough of him for one day.' She'd barely been able to speak to Cassian for the rest of their lesson, unable to stop thinking of how he'd put up a wall without her so much as saying a word, anticipating that she would go after him, assuming that she was so awful she couldn't have a normal conversation. That she'd mock him about his mother and their pain. 'I'd rather stay here.' The door opened wider. Nesta sighed. Her stomach ached with hunger. 'You're as much a busybody as the rest of them,' she muttered, and aimed for the dining room.”

“The House had dinner waiting on her desk, along with a book. Apparently, it had noted her request for a book the other day and deemed The Great War too dull. The title of this one was suitably smutty. 'I didn't know you had dirty taste,' Nesta said wryly. The House only responded by running a bath. 'Dinner, bath, and a book,' Nesta said aloud, shaking her head in something close to awe. 'It's perfect. Thank you.' The House said nothing, but when she stepped into her bathroom, she found that it wasn't an ordinary bath. The House had added an assortment of oils that smelled of rosemary and lavender. She breathed in the heady, beautiful scent and sighed. 'I think you might be my only friend,' Nesta said, then groaned her way into the tub's welcoming warmth. The House was apparently so pleased by her words that as soon as she lay back, a tray appeared across the width of the tub. Laden with a massive piece of chocolate cake.”

“The house has to be clean and in order because I have to be able to sift through the creative disorder in my mind. The mental disorder that I'm exploring has to bounce off the walls. It has to go in and out of different rooms. If the room is not in order, then I can't distinguish which is which, and that really drives me crazy.”

“The House is composed of very good men, not shining, but honest and reasonably well-informed, and in time will be found to improve, and not much inferior in eloquence, science, and dignity, to the British Commons. They are patriotic enough, and I believe there are more stupid (as well as more shining) people in the latter, in proportion.”

“The house is in moderate condition, but when we do the usual dance of exploring the price range, the agent clarifies that the owner has high expectations. The owner interjects and I hear the full story from the man himself. ‘My house has been valued at a million,’ he says with a grin. ‘Though I’ve been told it might be worth more than that. Would you believe it only cost me a year’s income back in the eighties? Had three children and never had to worry about money or a place to live. And now the value of it just keeps going up! It’s unbelievable what people have to pay for houses these days. Never would have imagined it.’ He cackles at this, as if it’s the funniest thing in the world.”

“The house may have been impressive in stature, but having gasped as they drove up the driveway, she had been disappointed by the interior. It was so bare. Lacking in things. She was mystified by this invisible wealth and the austerity of the house. She didn’t understand Mrs Zvobgo, she was rich but chose to live, in Tsitsi’s opinion, like a pauper. She was clearly uninterested in buying things. Maybe it was because she had never known poverty. Tsitsi on the other hand felt she was well versed in it. Tsitsi, unlike Mrs Zvobgo, wasn’t above noveau riche vulgarities. She didn’t want any sort of English boarding school minimalism. She wanted more. She wanted things. Things . Things. Things. Many of them. That much she was willing to admit. She made a private decision then that she would change this when she became the woman of this household. She knew they said wealth whispered and rich shouted, but what good was having all that they did if she had to keep it like some sort of secret?”

“The House of Belonging is your birthright; it is part of your Happily Everafter, whether you are married, single, divorced, widowed, with or without children. The blueprints of your House of Belonging exist as spiritual energy and hover over your head-ready, when you are, to be pulled down from Heaven to shelter your Soul on Earth.”