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“I think you will soon find that you need the bad memories, too. They can tell you things. They can give you answers, and sometimes they can solve problems. You must allow yourself to think of them every now and then, Son of Pane.”
“The hurt is why we need those memories. The hurt is what makes us understand others who are hurting, dear Son. If we grow numb to the hurt, we become shells with no hearts. And your heart is what has saved you,” the dragon said. “Don’t despise your hurt, and most importantly, don’t despise your heart.”
“You’re perfect,” Mor stated. “You’re perfect the way you are. Don’t change a thing, Violet Miller.”
“I know I’m the one who told you to take your cold iron, Human, but I’m pretty faeborn frustrated that I can’t touch you right now,”
A pack of females in hideous sweaters of all the ugliest colours of fairy yarn filled the museum’s doorway. It was the most beautiful sight Cress had ever beheld in his entire faeborn life, and a beat of relief soared through him.
“Yes. You belong to me now,” Mor promised. “You’re mine, Violet Miller.”
