It’s been so hard!” she whispered. “I don’t know what our destiny is!” Cloudstar bent his head toward her. “Your destiny is what you make it, Leafstar.
He smelled the salt on his own lips and the orange blossoms in her hair. Real ones, he could see now, tucked into the curls with cheap, native combs. The sight of them gave him hope.
But she's a redhead, so she's probably evil, even at her tender age." "I thought you liked redheads." "I do. What's your point?
... and all we knew about her that we didn't know the night before was that she had eyes like pansies and skin like the moon.
One woman is smirking, and another is averting her eyes with disinterest. It’s just like what happens when I bring up politics with strangers.
Because most people are stupid." Laila's words were harsh and her gaze bitter. "They don't want to see or know the truth. And so they willingly believe all the lies they are told.
She’s too sexy to be a killer—but not a murderer. A woman this beautiful gets a patsy to dole out death, and that makes her a lead murder suspect.
Sophie: "For the Create-A-Tale Competition, your story ended with Snow White eaten by vultures and Cinderella drowning her-self in a tub." Agatha: "I thought it was a better ending.
She didn't care so much whether the world would ever forgive her people; but she did hope that someday, somehow, she would be able to forgive herself.
It doesn't make you a monster to want, she said, her voice very gentle. It's what you do with it that matters.
And in that moment, Grace understood something that she would never forget: Home wasn't just a building or an apartment with a roof and beds and chairs inside. Home was with her family, wherever they were.
This woman was consuming him, bit by bit. She was becoming the reason and the reward of his existence, and if he did not shield himself, everything he did not have to give would belong to her.
And this was your friend?" Cordelia raised her eyebrows. "Seems to me the only difference between your friends and your enemies is how long the stand around chatting before they shoot you.
Just that one word—sound—sent a strong answering pulse through her body. His tongue curled around syllables that weren’t there, like a promise. This is what you’ll get, if you just let me hear.
It would be nice to report she lived happily ever after till the end of her days. But such cheap, cop-out one-liners belong to other uncomplicated fairy tales.
Yet my longing for her was like a bad cold that had hung on for years despite my conviction that I was sure to get over it at any moment.
The second Mrs. Helstone, inversing the natural order of insect existence, would have fluttered through the honeymoon a bright, admired butterfly, and crawled the rest of her days a sordid trampled worm.
At a certain point in her life, she realises it is not so much that she wants to have a child as that she does not want not to have a child, or not to have had a child.
Love is a spark. It’s the smile that says come to me. It’s the flirty hello. It’s the scent of her perfume. It’s his new haircut. It’s the look that ignites a dozen possibilities. - Set on Fire
I am happy the leaves are growing large so quickly. Soon they will hide the neighbor and her screaming child.
To work, her dumb lunge says, is to move a certain mass ...through a certain distance, is to pull your weight and feel exact and equal to it. Feel dragged upon. And buoyant.
