Indexing (Indexing, #1)

by Seanan McGuire

There’s one thing the Brothers Grimm got very, very wrong: There’s no such thing as “ever after.” That would require that the story ever end.

“Sloane is full of shit. She’s not allergic to the word ‘please,’ which is good for her, since if she were, we would all stand in a circle around her making polite requests until she went into anaphylactic shock. She just enjoys being horrible to the rest of us, and we let her, because we honestly can’t think of a way to make her stop.”

She looked like the sort of woman who had long since given up wishing for a fairy-tale ending, and was just hoping to make it through the week without collapsing. Too bad for her that the fairy tale hadn’t given up so easily.

Animals are not the barometer of humanity that some people make them out to be—not unless those animals have started talking, and then they present a whole new set of problems.

“Every good thing you find, no matter how small, is a penny for you to put in your pocket. Gather them close, and treasure them. Someday you’ll have a future where you feel rich enough, emotionally, to spend them freely.”

Dropping the spoon back onto the plate, Sloane turned and clomped back to the doorway. “These people were poisoned,” she said. “That’s the good news.” “How is that good news?” demanded Andy. “I don’t know if you noticed, but three people are dead in there.” Sloane waved her hand dismissively. “People die every day. Somebody died while you were thinking of that pithy comeback. Dying is amateur hour.”

how many people can be truly defined by their original names in both childhood and maturity? A truly sensible culture would grant a person a new name with every decade of their life, until age and perspective allowed them to choose the name that would grace their tombstone

Everyone thinks of them in terms of poisoned apples and glass coffins, and forgets that they represent girls who walked into dark forests and remade them into their own reflections.

What we think of as reality is just the tale type that took over longest ago. The others keep fighting back.”

“That’s the nature of stories. No one ever gets to know the entire thing. We just get to know the parts we have to deal with right here, right now. Before they rip our throats out.”

Now rest my dear, and be at ease; there’s a fire in the hearth and a wind in the eaves, and the night is so dark, and the dark is so deep, and it’s time that all good little stars were asleep.