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When you’re a time traveler, the people you love die, and you carry on seeing them, so their death stops making a difference to you. The only death that will ever change things is your own.
“Your marriage is doomed anyway. It never works out between time travelers and emus. It’s the power imbalance, you see. You’re always going to know more than him about the future. And your values will change too. They always do.”
“Rituals,” Odette said in disbelief. “What are they for?” “It’s for your benefit,” Fay said. “It accustoms you more quickly to being one of us. You’re not like them now. It’s better if you accept that as soon as possible.” “But what’s in this ritual for you, personally?” Fay looked at Mr. Montgomery, sobbing into his daughter’s tow hair. “Sometimes,” Fay mused, “I like watching people have emotions I don’t feel anymore.”
“Doesn’t that ever worry you?” Grace asked. “What?” “When we start to see people’s deaths that way. An unpleasant inconvenience, to tick off the chores list? A date we write in the calendar so it doesn’t slip our minds?” “Mm. I’d call it an adaptive strategy.”
“You’re narcissistic. You empathize with people only to further your own ends, you charm people as long as you receive admiration in exchange, and you feel shame, but not guilt. You think you’re entitled to people’s compliance. You try to enliven your loveless world by inflicting pain on others and sensation-seeking with games like Candybox roulette. The Conclave is dysfunctional because anyone who doesn’t fulfil your narcissistic needs is eliminated, or self-selects out. You’ve made the whole organization narcissistic. Convinced of its specialness and distinction from everyday people,
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“Are you ready, Ruby?” “Not quite. This trial by ordeal,” Ruby checked. “Are the verdicts always accurate?” “No,” Fay said bluntly. “They are always fated. That might not seem very fair to you. But no system of justice is perfect.”