It arrived only a few days ago and is still a novelty. Had it been present for longer, Caroline likely would have chosen a different dare, but the circus is currently the talk of the town, and Caroline likes to keep her dares en vogue.
Change is what a story is, after all.
He thinks that if he is about to die, he should have began collecting his final thoughts earlier. He thinks about Zachary and regrets a lot of things he didn’t say or didn’t do. Books he didn’t read, stories he didn’t tell, decisions he didn’t make.
Thank you,” she says to Tsukiko as they leave. “I enjoyed that more than I had expected to.” “The finest of pleasures are always the unexpected ones,” Tsukiko replies.
She wears her fear lightly, like a veil, aware that there are dangers but letting the crackling awareness hover around her. It does not sink in, it buzzes in excitement like a swarm of invisible bees.
Are you wearing pajamas?” the idea of Dorian asks.
If you believe enough to try to open a painted door you’re more likely to believe in wherever it leads.
If you were to tell anyone what you know, or what you think you know, no one would believe you.” “Because it’s too weird?” “Because you’re a woman,” she said. “That makes you easier to write off as crazy. Hysterical. If you were a man it might be an issue.
We are the stars,” he answers, as though it is the most obvious of facts afloat in a sea of metaphors and misdirections. “We are all stardust and stories.
Drank rosemary for remembrance. Looked for a cat. Danced with the king of the wild things. Excellent-smelling man told me a story in the dark. Cat found me.
You think you don’t have a house to go home to but you do now, understand?
Being dead should not feel this perilous.
I hope wherever this all leads it’s worth it. Whenever that happens.
She sat next to me and told me that we were the people that the narrative would have followed out from the party if we were in a movie or a novel or something. We were where the story was, the story you could follow like a string, not all the overlapping party stories in the house, tangled up with too many dramas soaked in cheap alcohol and stuffed into not enough rooms.
Zachary remembers the man lost in time wandering cities of honey and bone in Sweet Sorrows and the mention of the Starless Sea in Fortunes and Fables and wonders if all of these stories are somehow the same story.
But there are no new ideas. Only old ones, turned over and over again in her mind.
You want to think that you did or that you were supposed to but you always had a choice.
All stories do, no matter what form they take. Something was, and then something changed. Change is what a story is, after all.
This is the rabbit hole. Do you want to know the secret to surviving once you’ve gone down the rabbit hole?” Zachary nods and Mirabel leans forward. Her eyes are ringed with gold. “Be a rabbit,” she whispers.
Maybe the Starless Sea isn’t just a children’s bedtime story.