Book Name: A Conjuring of Light A Novel
Writer: V.E. SCHWAB
A world away, Holland was drowning. He battled to the outside of his own
psyche, just to be constrained down into the dull water by a will as solid as
iron. He battled, and mauled, and heaved for air, strength draining out with
each savage whip, each frantic battle. It was more terrible than kicking the
bucket, since passing on offered an approach to death, and this did not.
There was no light. No air. No strength. It had all been taken, cut off, leaving
only murkiness and, someplace past the pound, a voice yelling his name.
Kell’s voice—Too far away. Holland’s grasp wavered, slipped, and he was
sinking again. All he had ever needed was to bring the wizardry back—to
see his reality spared from its moderate, relentless demise—a passing
caused first by the dread of another London, and afterward by the dread of
his own. All Holland needed was to see his reality restored. Revived. He
knew the legends—the fantasies—of an entertainer incredible enough to do
it. Strong enough to inhale air once more into its starved lungs, to revive its
dying heart. For as far back as Holland could recall, that was all he’d
wanted. And for as far back as Holland could recollect, he had needed the
performer to be him.
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