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409 pages, Hardcover
First published October 18, 2011
“I say, 'I will not be your weakness, Sean Kendrick.'
Now he looks at me. He says, very softly, 'It’s late for that, Puck.'”
It's the first day of November and so, today,
"I am here on firm ground, but part of me is already down on the beach, and my own blood is singing I'm so, so alive"
"Outside, the wind is a live, starving thing. The sky over Skarmouth is a dull brown, lit by the streetlights, but everywhere else is inky."
"Why aren't you going?"
The question infuriates me. I demand, "Why is it that going away is the standard? Does anyone ask you why you stay, Sean Kendrick?"
"And why do you?"
"The sky and the sand and the sea and Corr."
"All I know is that Sean Kendrick rode that bay mare and waited until he was nearly over the cliff edge before saving himself, and that the dead speak more than he does."
It feels like he's confessed that he's dying of a disease I've never heard of, with symptoms I can't see. The utter wrongness of it, the way it won't fit in my head, keeps coming back to me again and again, as if I've only just learned about it.
I think every now and then about Sean's thumb pressed against my wrist and daydream about him touching me again. But mostly I think about the way he looks at me — with respect — and I think that's probably worth more than anything.
“There are moments that you'll remember for the rest of your life and there are moments that you think you'll remember for the rest of your life, and it's not often they turn out to be the same moment.”
"He is slow, and the sea sings to us both, but he returns to me."
"This island runs on courage, not blood," he says.
"I will not be your weakness, Sean Kendrick."
He says, very softly, 'It's late for that, Puck."