The Hollow Girl
Page 22
“I’m sorry. We thought the lie was necessary.”
“Don’t apologize. I don’t care about that. But if I were to run away with you, why would I be stupid enough to come home unmarried? He ought to wallop me.”
He turned back to the road, leaving me standing there stupefied. Something stirred in my gut then—something foreign that I hadn’t felt in days. Hope. His kindness had broken through the emptiness, fear, and self-loathing to give me a glimmer of something good.
Maybe Gran is right after all.
I’d climbed a mountain for the privilege of speaking to Martyn Woodard again. I didn’t know what would happen between us. Our lives were different—he among the gadjos, I with my people. He was a farmer, while I was a drabarni’s apprentice. I had a long, hard journey ahead of me to heal my heart.
But maybe, with enough time and patience, I’d see the beautiful tapestry Gran had promised.
I picked up my skirt and hurried after him so I could walk by his side.
The Hollow Girl has been a labor of love, from inception to drafting and all the way through edits. It’s claimed brain real estate for well over ten years now. I remember sitting in my grandmother’s apartment, listening to her talk about the story she wanted to write with the two Romani sisters, one who stayed with her people and one who moved on. Sadly, she died before she could pen it, but years later, when I followed in her footsteps as a professional, I swore I’d write something just for her. While I didn’t duplicate all aspects of her tale for the reasons outlined in my foreword, I tackled the ones I felt I could do justice.
And so my biggest and most obvious thanks go to my grandmother Dorothy. She was strong and funny. She was quick and sharp and brooked no stupidity. She was proud—so proud—and never let anything keep her down for long despite odds that would have crushed others. Without her, I would not be Hillary. She was one set of hands that shaped me into the quasi-capable adult I have become. I miss her every day. I’m crying while I write this. Her loss is always with me, a wound that will never completely heal.
There are others who helped get this book onto shelves, too, and I’d be remiss not to mention them. My immediate family. My adopted family of Dave, Becky, Ethan, Lauren, Greg, and Eric. My extended family. My extended friends. I love you all. The Hollow Girl wouldn’t have been possible without Sarah Johnson’s eye—as a biracial Romani woman, her feedback was invaluable. My beta readers, including Evie Nelson, are always in my corner, and I adore them for that. T. S. Ferguson is as much a fan of me as I am of him, and he always gets me through the crazy publishing days. Thank you, love, for being there for me time and time again.
Special thanks go to Miriam Kriss, agent extraordinaire and part-time Hillary therapist, for putting up with me. My editor, Kate Sullivan, gets equal props. I remember hearing that Kate loved and hated this book in equal measure, so she had to have it, and I knew then that she’d be perfect for it—this is a book designed to make you feel, and those feelings aren’t always good. She got the work and what I was trying to do with it; she gets me. Kate, you and the Delacorte team are fantastic. Thank you for everything.
Hillary Monahan lives in Massachusetts with her husband, hounds, and cats. She loves horror, humor, feminism, and makeup. Her YA book Mary: The Summoning hit the New York Times ebook bestseller list, and she is currently working on more dark things for the YA market.
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