“Did you say Perdita?” said Leo. “Her name’s Miranda.” “I’m Perdita,” said Perdita. — And the story fell out stone by stone, shining and held, the way time is held in a diamond, the way the light is held in each stone. And stones speak, and what was silent opens its mouth to tell a story and the story is set in stone to break the stone. What happened happened. But. The past is a grenade that explodes when thrown.
