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When you have enough power and money, you can dictate the meanings of words.
Where her books were, she was. Get the books right and the rest will follow. Now she could address the rest of the room.
In that first moment, Stevie had the feeling she had met David before. Something about him that just had a suggestion of . . . something she couldn’t place. Something that made her brain itch.
STEVIE HAD GREAT HOPES FOR THE BOARDING SCHOOL DINING HALL. She knew better than to hope for floating candlesticks and ghosts, but long wooden tables didn’t seem out of the question.
Harry Potter reference!
Things righted themselves for a moment, until David came out of the dining hall, his unruly hair sticking up at odd angles. He still hadn’t changed out of the clothes from the night before. Stevie had that same quiver of recognition, like he was someone she knew well. But there was no way they could have met before.
Stevie had no fears of the dead. The living, however, sometimes gave her the creeps.
Sherlock said, “I consider that a man’s brain originally is like a little empty attic, and you have to stock it with such furniture as you choose.”
Nate was a rain cloud, but he was her friendly rain cloud, and the world needs some rain.
“Of course I worry too much,” Nate said. “But I’m usually right. The people who worry are always right. That’s how that works.”
Some mistakes you have to make.
The moon was thin like a hook, and the owls were calling. The smell of fall leaves blew on the wind and Hayes was dead.
Her brain attic was full of new and strange things she had not been able to classify and sort yet.
That was something they taught you in anxiety therapy—the thoughts may come, but you don’t have to chase them all.
“It’s not bad or good. It just is. That’s something you’ll find out if you decide to go into this line of work. You have to take things as they are, not how you hear they’re supposed to be.”
Stevie was not one of those people who thought fate decided for her. Fate was making choices. Fate was at least trying.
“I just think you get me,” she said. “I do,” he said, shrugging. “We have a limited emotional vocabulary. We’re indoor kids.”
“I annoy people,” he said. “Believe me. I’m aware. It’s an effective way to communicate if you don’t have any other options. If you can’t get in through the door, throw a rock through the window. And I think maybe you’re the same way.”
Her wrists were throbbing. Her pulse was going to make her hands balloon up, maybe explode from the pressure.
when people talked about feelings and touching and all of the stuff she thought was meant to be kept carefully bottled inside her own personal apothecary. Now someone wanted in, to take the lids off the vials, to peer at the contents.
Vorachek used the courtroom like a pulpit to rage against the industrialists of the world. This was revenge, he said. Soon, all people like Albert Ellingham would pay. The anarchists cheered and were taken from the court. The crowd gasped and cried and ate their popcorn.
