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“Children are stronger than you think,” she’d argued. “Besides, they haven’t had years and years of silly people filling their heads with silly ideas about what you’re meant to do or say or be.”
“Perhaps then,” she suggested, “if you cannot disperse the ghosts, you must find a way to live with them.”
“I would not be who I am without him. I have many regrets, but knowing Marleigh—even if that meant losing him—could never be one of them.”
“Justin would be a terrible ogre. He’s far too polite. He would say things like, fee-fi-fo-fum, I smell the blood of an Englishman. Be he alive or be he dead, would you please forgive me the discourtesy were I to grind your bones to make my bread.”
“Had you run out of colours?” asked Lady Marleigh, visibly confused. “Black’s a colour,” protested Lady Miranda. “As is grey.”
“Why were the 95th sent to hold the sand-quarry?” “Well, because we were in position, and best suited to do it.” “I see. And did that reflect poorly upon the rest of the army?” At this point, he wasn’t sure how successfully he was concealing his bewilderment. “Of course not.” “I picked up your cane for you,” she told him, “because I was in position, and best suited to do it.”
“Suffering isn’t something we earn, Gracewood. It’s something we bear.”
