More on this book
Community
Kindle Notes & Highlights
The thrill of the confession had been terrible and beautiful—and retractable.
This was what Andrew did—told stories. Ones with dark, bitter corners and magic curled into thorns. Ones about monsters with elegant, razor-like teeth. He wrote fairy tales, but cruel.
Like a paper cut—a tiny sting that meant nothing more than I’m alive I’m alive I’m alive.
Once upon a time, Andrew had cut out his heart and given it to this boy, and he was very sure Thomas had no idea that Andrew would do anything for him. Protect him. Lie for him. Kill for him.
Except one look at Thomas and anyone could see his mouth was crammed full of thorns and lies.
Andrew was the worst about it, the one who clammed up or outright lied so people would stop trying to pry apart his bones and see why he was riddled with peculiar agonies.
The Wickwood library had been known to eat students whole.
What were twins, if not one to shout and one to whisper?
This reminds me of mom and aunt hope
Andrew kept checking his face in the mirror to make sure nothing showed. To make sure he swallowed his shattered feelings like glass.
His chest was a broken cage for his emotions, and they spilled out of him like paint.
He needed Thomas, needed their lungs sewn inside each other so he could remember how to breathe. He needed to take words from Thomas’s mouth and put them in his own so he had something to say.
