Sylvia Plath Novels & Stories

Sibyl stood up, patted Sylvia on the shoulder without a word, and left the room. "Sibyl, are you agreeing... or not?" Sylvia couldn't quite figure out Sibyl's thoughts, but judging by her expression, she seemed satisfied with the plan. And it made sense—after all, she had heard that Sibyl's head had been shoved into a toilet before. If Sibyl could swallow such a humiliation, then she wouldn't be Sibyl! Although Sylvia hadn't been by Sibyl's side for long, she knew Sibyl's character very well. Sibyl was a vengeful woman, and especially now that she had suffered such a loss, she wouldn't let it slide.

You've only just started to remember who you are. She smiled wryly. "Who I was died on the day Miyal chose her. Perfera. My husband didn't betray me, he eliminated me. In his mind, I became the bad guy. The threat. And she—" Her jaw snapped shut. "She used innocence like perfume, poisoning everything." Ignatius kept silence. The hurt in her voice had no need of echo. "I can still see them," Krishna said, "in the garden. Her hands on his face. His lips on her skin. The way she looked back at me—triumphant. And he didn't flinch. Didn't explain. Just turned away."