The Handmaid's Tale Book Novels & Stories

Leah Falco's POV The old lady looks at me with a circumstance face while I can only think about leaving this hateful feudal-style room. I feel like one of those maidens kidnapped by vandals in the Mallory series.* 'Mallory: book series created by Johanna Lindsey' "I can help you," I offer with a pleading expression. "Dean said..."

But still, she couldn’t stop the way she felt. Grayson and Leo could have their pick of perfect, flawless girls. How much longer would they want her? When those marks grew more and more. When she was left with a saggy stomach after the baby was born, and when her breasts started to deflate after her milk dried up. And not to mention the state of her vagina after the baby squeezed through it. She heard the sound of his wheelchair across the floor. Felt his hand graze against the back of hers.

The moment she crosses the threshold and her feet met the cool, welcoming touch of her bedroom floor, she allows herself to sink onto her bed, the cushions yielding to her weight. With a deep sense of purpose, she extends her hand towards the book nestled on her bed, cradling it tenderly. Astrid could scarcely contain her curiosity, her fingers quivering with the exhilaration of the adventure awaiting her. As she opened the book, she was instantly transported into a world as captivating as the printed pages itself, where words spun tales of Supernatural beings beyond her wildest imagination. The book unveiled a hidden realm, one inhabited by nine extraordinary entities, each with its own uni

“For training.” I smiled despite myself. “Tell her thank you.” The maid hesitated. “Actually…” “What?” “She said not to thank her.” I frowned. “Why?” “You’ll understand later.” Strange… very strange. That evening, I wandered into the library again, this time not to read but because I wanted silence. I returned yesterday’s books. The librarian smiled nervously. “I found something else you may enjoy.” He placed a slim volume before me. It wasn’t about kings or bloodlines or prophecies. Its title read; Forgotten Women of the First Kingdom.

it raised one hand toward Adrian. "When the final page arrives..." "...do not search for the perfect ending." "Search for the honest one." Then... it disappeared. The Gate closed with a sound like the final heartbeat of an ancient world. The Archive returned to complete silence. Only Adrian, Elias, the First Reader, the little girl, and the blue book remained. On the cover of the blue book... a new title slowly appeared. THE BOOK OF POSSIBILITIES Far away... beyond every world... beyond every Door...

And that girl of fourteen with nine hundred and forty names in her arm and the rain running off her, who had run two hundred years of it out of a room with a pen since she was ten years old because there was nobody else left to do it, looked at me and said: “Yes. But if I stop, you have to be able to read the hand. And she cannot read the third book, because the third book is not in the house hand; it is in the old one, and the only person alive who was taught the old one is the man who has been sitting in your chair at Ravencross.”

My hands trembled as I opened the folder. Tucked inside was a faded photograph. The church, fifteen years ago. A picture of me and a little girl... but the face wasn't Sophia's. It was Isabella. The words on the back twisted in my gut like a knife: The one who really saved you was never Sophia. The memory hit me like a freight train. The rain, the fear, her small hand in mine. It was Isabella. It was always Isabella. "No... no, it can't be..." I collapsed onto the blood-stained floor.

“I don’t sleep much.” I should have stepped back, but I didn’t. The room seemed smaller with him in it, the walls pressing in as if to keep us close. He reached past me, plucking a worn leather-bound volume from the shelf. “This one,” he said, setting it on the table, “is worth losing sleep for.” It was an old history text, its pages brittle, the ink faded. He didn’t open it right away—just stood there, one hand resting on the cover, his gaze locked on me like he was searching for something.

Elle wiped the wax away with a hand as steady as stone. Rounding the bend, Elaine stopped in her tracks. In the center of the room was a woman with eyes the color of ash. She glanced their way for a moment, but then resumed to her book. The volume she was reading was massive, maybe as large as Elaine. It was leather-bound and intricately sewn. The book rested atop a cherry wood table that towered in the old library. The woman stood behind the podium; her old, but unworked hands, smoothing out the precious pages.

In this woman's hands, holding a book that had started with one true sentence and become, page by page, the fullest version of the truth I knew how to tell. Still here. Always still here.