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246 pages, Hardcover
First published September 13, 2012
"The spindlers had gotten him: they had dropped down from the ceiling on their glistening webs of shadowed darkness and dropped their silken threads in his ear, and extracted is soul slowly, like a fisherman coaxing a trout from the water on a taut nylon fishing line. In its place they deposited their eggs; then they withdrew to their shadowed, dark corners and their underground lairs with his soul bound closely in silver thread."
"The world is a freak, she should have said. Everything that happens in it is strange and beautiful."
"This was what her parents did not understand - and had never understood - about stories. Liza told herself as though she was weaving and knotting an endless rope. Then, no matter how dark or terrible the pit she found herself in, she could pull herself out, inch by inch and hand over hand, on the long rope of stories."
"Liza stared at her. 'Impossible.'
Mirabella swept her tail around her wrist and gave an imperious sniff. 'That is a human word,' she sad. 'And a very ugly one at that. We have no use for it Below.'"
"Liza felt she now knew many things she had not known yesterday. She knew, for example, that even rats could be beautiful, and hope grew from the smallest seeds, and sometimes there was great truth in made-up stories."
That they [her parents] dreamed at all was a revelation. She had always assumed, in some way, that they powered off at night, like computes, and booted up again in the morning, with a whole new series of downloaded complaints and annoyances and problems and irritations. She could not begin to imagine what they would dream about. Taxes, perhaps...?