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“Parties! You know what they say—first, the parties. And before you know it, they’re on to the murdering.”
Some people don’t like to read. Or they don’t like sport. They don’t like the routine of it, or the slow pace, or the fast pace, or the noise. Whether it seems too intellectual or too base. But I’m an anomaly if I don’t like parties or restaurants? It’s wrong if I don’t like the idea that there are a demanded set of responses and that I’ll be judged on how well I can provide them?”
I thought also about the state of my boots, which Lena had coaxed me into buying on something called a flash sale site, an experience I found traumatic enough to never want to do it again.
If Lucien was interested in killing me, I would be dead, Milo or no. No, toying with me was Lucien’s hobby, and one’s hobby stops being a hobby once it’s buried beneath an angel statue in an excruciatingly posh cemetery.
It’s strange to grieve for your former self, and still I think it’s something that any girl understands. I’ve shed so many skins, I hardly know what I am now—muscle, maybe, or just memory. Perhaps just the will to keep going.
I disliked it when the term “fairy-tale” was bandied about. Most often it was used to mean “whimsical.” This is inaccurate. In fairy tales, the forest swallows you up like a dinner. Your parents wrap you in a cloak and set you loose in the dark. Everything happens in threes, and only the oldest child survives. As a younger sister, I particularly resented that last implication.
I preferred to watch Jamie Watson sleep, because if he slept and I was watching, he was safe.
