The Dead in Their Vaulted Arches (Flavia de Luce, #6)

by Alan Bradley

There are certain sounds which are meant never to be heard by children—even though I am no longer really a child—and the chiefest of these is the sound of a parent crying. It was agony.

It was a typical de Luce solution: logical beyond question, and yet, at the same time, mad as a March hare.

Although it seems shocking to say so, grief is a funny thing. On the one hand, you’re numb, yet on the other, something inside is trying desperately to claw its way back to normal: to pull a funny face, to leap out like a jack-in-the-box, to say “Smile, damn you, smile!”

Oh, how I adored the hobgoblin and the foul fiend! They were the making of this particular hymn, and if I had my way, more songs of praise would be required to include such interesting creatures.

“There is no need for that,” he said at last, softly. “Your mother has been given back to me—in you.”