His mind traced the arabesques and coils of an alphabet that looked like music sounded.
Push the chair in too quickly or too slowly, or else sit too soon or too heavily, and misadventure ensues, perhaps even an unintended baptism of the hindquarters.
His hope was like an intake of icy air – it hurt – and just as sharp and sudden was his jealousy. In an instant he was hot and cold with it, his hands clenching into fists so tight they burned. A flare of adrenaline coursed through him and left him shaking, and it wasn’t her. It wasn’t her, and for the fleeting flash of an instant, he felt relief. Followed by crushing disappointment and self-loathing for what his reaction had been.
In the darkness behind their shut lids they all saw the same thing: no color at all, only loss like a hole torn in the world.
She tasted of hope. Oh. What does that taste like? Pollen and stars, the Fallen said.
His warmth was like a gift given and snatched away, and she stood there with her back to the window, feeling chilled, bereft, and undone. And angry. It was a childish, cartoonish anger- facing Akiva, she had wanted to beat her fists at his chest and then fall against him and feel his arms close around her.
Over the years she’d found that that was all it took, that lazy smile, and she could tell the truth without risk of being believed.
To his dismay, it sounded as out of place in this somber laboratory as the book looked out of place, and he found himself rushing to keep ahead of his growing mortification, which only made it sound wilder and more foolish the faster he went. “You.
So what,’ said Zuzana. ‘They had to be pretty stupid butterflies to fall for him anyway. You’ll grow new ones with more sense. New wise butterflies.
Do the thing. Kill the monster. Change the world.
I met an angel in Morocco and all I got were these lousy scars.
He hoped at least that Lazlo saw how foolish it all was. Sarai wasn’t like that. Lazlo was lucky. Well, Sarai was dead, so not lucky lucky.
Every night she bore witness to what she could never have. It wasn’t living. It was torture.
He understood in that moment that he was smaller than he had ever known, and the realm of the unknowable was bigger.
The goddess of dreams, she thought, if there were such a person, would wear gossamer and moonlight. No sooner did she think it than she was it. Her skin let off a subtle glow. Her dress floated like evaporating mist, and a corona of stars and fireflies perched on her red-brown hair.
And when her hearts resumed beating, she imagined she could feel a spill of light into the veins that carried her spirit.
How people love to see a dream shatter, thought Nova from far away. To see the dreamer hobbled and lamed, foundering in the shards of their broken hopes. This is what you get for believing that you could have more. You’re no better than us. You’re nothing special.
It was, in fact, quite difficult to lie to a hawk.
Her body may have been wrought with diamonds, but her soul within will be a soft mollusk thing, wet and shrinking... and easily pushed aside.
Las cosas cambian. Pueden cambiarlas quienes tienen voluntad de hacerlo.