Library of Souls (Miss Peregrine's Peculiar Children, #3)

by Ransom Riggs

Miracle. Curse. I hadn’t quite worked out the difference.

The present seemed suddenly strange to me, so trivial and distracted. I felt like one of those mythical heroes who fights his way back from the underworld only to realize that the world above is every bit as damned as the one below.

But oh—never mind,” he said coyly, waving his hand, “come to think of it, I doubt you’d be interested in Devil’s Acre.”

Title of the last book... "desolation" certainly isn't a good sign if the others are there... :/

The trouble with the merely unwise/deeply stupid line is that you often don’t know which side you’re on until it’s too late.

Maybe the journey was only as rough as the destination, and this one had felt like off-roading into a savage wilderness because that’s precisely what we had done.

She had this amazing capacity to turn sadness into anger and anger into action, which meant nothing ever kept her down for long.

“One’s peculiarity is a sacred gift,” Emma said. “To sell it cheapens what is most special about us.”

“But it isn’t always so black and white,” Emma said, “and selling yourself erodes your moral compass. Pretty soon you’re dipping into the wrong side of that gray area without knowing it, doing things you’d never do if you weren’t being paid to do them. And if someone were desperate enough, they might sell themselves to anyone, no matter what the other’s intentions.”

“I’m going to find Caul,” Emma went on. “I’m going to find him and make him weep for his mother. I’m going to make him beg for his worthless life, and then I’m going to put both hands around his neck and squeeze until his head melts off

The bridge could be sprinted across in under a minute, I guessed, but why run? Because, I thought, a line from Tolkien materializing in my head, one does not simply walk into Mordor.

Instead, at the end of our lives we were to make a pilgrimage to the library, where our souls would be deposited for future use by others. Even in spiritual matters, we peculiars have always been frugal-minded.”

There's the library of souls

“I’m getting to that,” Bentham said, then turned to Nim, who was hovering nearby. “You can go, Nim. We don’t need any more tea.” “Sorry, sir, didn’t mean to eavesdrop, sir, but this is my favorite part.”

Part of me wonders if Nim is going to betray them

“My hunch is this: he believes you may be the last key to the Library of Souls. One who can see and manipulate the soul jars.”

I could feel old Jacob and new Jacob wrestling over that, terror and exhilaration coming at me in successive waves.

“We’ll finally live in peace and harmony,” he said, his voice smooth and reassuring, “with me as your king, your god. This is peculiardom’s natural hierarchy. We were never meant to live like this, decentralized and powerless. Ruled by women. There will be no more hiding when I’m in charge. No more pathetic cowering beneath the skirts of ymbrynes. Our rightful place as peculiars is at the head of the human table. We’ll rule the earth and all its people. We’ll finally inherit what’s ours!”

Ugh I hate him

Quiet yourself, I am speaking to the male.”

UGH I HATE HIM