Novel & Cerita Evelyn Miller Author

She became so absorbed in these shimmering illustrations that she failed to notice someone stepping closer. Evelyn had just arrived in New York that morning and had intended to visit Adela’s apartment directly. However, as she was driving through the busy streets, she happened to catch sight of Adela heading into the bookstore. Intrigued, she followed at a distance, uncertain whether she was ready to approach. A swirl of conflicting emotions had stopped her from walking right up to Adela. She had heard faint rumors that Adela was pregnant, but seeing her in person with a growing belly confirmed it. Evelyn’s mind was full of questions about how such a young woman, carrying a child, could stil

Predictable. Evelyn used to braid her hair in front of the mirror, not because it needed it, but because it gave her something to do with her hands. She loved lavender soap. She hated thunderstorms. She whispered secrets to the cat who slept by her window and believed the moon listened when she cried. She had dreams, once. Small ones. The kind that never seemed important until they were gone. Like buying her mother a new coat. Like planting a garden. Like reading every book in the little library by the hill. None of them included being sold.

It tested her bones the way a key tests a door it suspects will yield with enough kindness. Evelyn did not yield. She let the iron lines Maera had drawn become definitions—borders that said no with ordinary authority. The pressure reached her throat, tasted the line, and flinched like a child who has learned its mother’s name is not a permission. “Good,” Maera breathed. “Again.” Evelyn pressed forward. “You want wolves,” she said, voice roughening into something that might have been prayer if she had believed in any god but witness. “I am the person who writes down the bill.”

"Greetings, Healer. This is Evelyn Lawson. Do you have a patient named Ruth Miller in your wards awaiting a liver graft? Yes, that is the one. As we discussed, your rise to Head Healer is within my influence. I find myself in a difficult position, and I require a favor." Moments later, Evelyn hung up, a cold light in her eyes as she sipped a dark tea. Her blood-red nails caught the light of the chandeliers. "Mother, why the smirk?" Madison descended toward her, her curiosity piqued. A thin, cruel smile touched Evelyn’s lips. "Good tidings, daughter. I have connections within the Bayview ward. I have ensured the liver meant for the Miller woman has been diverted to a more... deserving soul. L

Wendy wanted to close her eyes but Evelyn tapped her face to keep her awake and said "I am not done with you witch, so you can't die just yet. You need to look at the one who caused your downfall, it is I Evelyn Mills. So take a look at my face, I want my face to be the last thing you will ever see. You took my entire childhood away from me. And took my unborn child away as well, now you can rot in hell because you are never coming out of here alive I can assure you that." She brought out a knife and was about to punch the air bag but decided not to when she heard footsteps, she kept her knife back in her pocket and left.

Why can’t he pay them to cure Mom? I learned to read novels to Mom back then until she fell asleep. She loves Thomas Hardy, just like Dad. I distanced myself from everything that would remind me of her suffering. This annoying confinement that smelled of alcohol. They tried to hide the irking scent with artificial fragrance from bleach and soap, but it did nothing to my senses. Even from Hardy’s books, I kept a respectful distance because every word, every hard cover, reminds me of her. “Can you direct me where Evan Carter is?” I breathed out at the receptionist. She has a landline trapped on her shoulders and right cheeks. Fingers keep punching on the keyboard.

Viviane insisted. “Do as you wish,” Arthur grumbled. Then, looking at Eliza, he asked, “Are you hungry? The hens are laying good eggs these days. There’s still a few scrambled in that pan.” Since she normally woke up ravenous, Eliza was surprised to realize that she actually felt full. Not wanting to bring any more attention to her that might renew their questions about where she’d been and why, she smiled and made her way to the stove. Lifting the cover off the fry pan, she lowered her face over the eggs and sniffed long and deep. They smelled especially delicious that morning.

Megan saw me approaching and her smile grew. “Oh good, Tess. You are here,” she said, motioning for me to join her. I plastered a smile on my lips and walked towards her. “I wanted you to meet a dear friend of mine,” she said, motioning for the woman in front of her. The woman turned around, and I paused in my tracks; my heart sunk deep into my stomach, and I thought I was going to pass out. “This is Evelyn McClain,” Megan introduced. “Evelyn, this is one of my newest, and best writers, Tessa Campbell.”

Evelyn picked up a book and sat down on the thick and soft cushion as she read comfortably. She was originally worried that she would be bored while waiting, but she forgot all about the passage of time with these books around. Evelyn only looked away from the book in her hand when Rowan knocked on the door and came in. “Are you done eating?” Evelyn quickly closed the book in her hand and stood up when she saw him coming in. She had completely forgotten about the time while reading, so she asked him this question because she thought that it had only been a while. In fact, it was already 9:00 PM.

she turned away from me again, running her fingers down the spines of a few water-warped novels. You. "The one behind my desk," I answered. "It's my favorite." Evelyn looked over my desk at the worn down novel, the years and years of use made it delicate. She stroked a gentle finger over the cover. "It looks well-loved." "Do you have a favorite book, Evelyn?" I asked, leaning back at the table, our dirty dishes stacked neatly, ready for a cabin boy to take them away in the morning. She glanced at me from over her shoulder, a smile pulling on the corners of her lips. A devious smirk that screamed indignance. "I do. It's called, 'The Art of Profanity'."