Give me two people who have every reason to be careful with each other, then let one of them say something utterly ill-advised.
I am listening.
There might be a blade between them. Someone may be bleeding. Their chances of surviving the night could depend upon a little restraint.
And still, one of them has to open their mouth.
I have considerable affection for these people. Their companions probably deserve compensation.
When I think about what draws me into a dangerous romance, I always come back to the way the characters speak to each other. Attraction lives in those exchanges long before either person is prepared to admit what is happening.
A challenge becomes an invitation. A familiar insult begins to sound suspiciously affectionate. Someone who can face an enemy without flinching discovers that one particular smile is going to be a serious problem.
That is where I want to lean closer.
When Someone Finally Answers Back
There is pleasure in watching a formidable character meet someone who refuses to be suitably impressed.
Perhaps everyone else steps aside when he enters a room. She wants to know whether he intends to stand in the doorway all evening.
Perhaps she has perfected the art of driving people away. He notices, stays, and has the nerve to look comfortable.
The words matter because of what happens beneath them. Each answer reveals something. Pride. Curiosity. A bruise someone would rather keep covered.
Sometimes a character makes a joke because the truth is too tender to offer plainly. If the other person laughs, they can both pretend that was all it meant.
For a little while, at least.
Then comes the moment when the teasing stops.
The familiar answer never arrives. Someone hears the strain beneath a careless remark and chooses, for once, to be gentle.
After all that sparring, a few honest words can leave a person wonderfully defenseless.
A Little Laughter in a Cruel World
I love darkness in a story. I want danger with consequences, choices that hurt, and love that asks something difficult of the people caught inside it.
I also want to understand why they keep reaching for one another.
Laughter gives me part of that answer.
It lets us glimpse who these people might be when they have enough breath left to enjoy being alive. For a moment, they can irritate each other over something small. Share a look. Discover that the person beside them has a dreadful sense of humor and, regrettably, they are beginning to enjoy it.
Those moments give the danger something precious to threaten.
When I care about the way two people laugh together, I care desperately about whether they will have another chance.
That is part of what I want to bring to the Vale. Alongside the magic, wounds, and fierce devotion, I want room for the remark that earns a reluctant smile. The stubbornness that becomes familiar. The person who knows exactly how to provoke you and is learning when to hold you instead.
Living through a cursed world must be exhausting.
Having someone beside you who can make you laugh at the worst possible moment seems a reasonable consolation.
Even if you occasionally consider pushing them into a bramble.
Tell me, reader: do you fall first for the sharp tongue, the quiet tenderness, or the alarming discovery that one character possesses both?
If dangerous magic and troublesome hearts sound like your kind of company, begin Azara and Darian’s story with Thorns of Ash.
With love and a little trouble,
Zoey
