The Desolations of Devil's Acre (Miss Peregrine's Peculiar Children, #6)

by Ransom Riggs

I found the disguised hinge just as she returned holding the bloody, bronze-handled letter opener, which only moments ago had been buried in the neck of a dead wight. I could almost hear Miss Peregrine’s voice say What an endlessly useful little doodah

Miss Hawksbill made me achingly sad. Partly because her pain was so visible: It was evident in the slouch of her shoulders, the grooved lines around her eyes. But mostly because I understood. How many people would spend their lives among shades and ghosts, were they able? Every parent who’d lost a child, every lover who’d lost a mate: If they had the choice, wouldn’t most do the same? We’re all riddled with holes, and there were days when I would’ve done anything to patch mine, if just for a while.