Children of Memory (Children of Time, #3)

by Adrian Tchaikovsky

My premier conclusion is that it’s not going to be any better. I’m not qualified to look for “better.” I’m just after “new.”

And later, when she was gone, they would take turns being her, speaking in eerie echoes of her voice, perching where she sat, a raven’s remembrance.

Miranda has never known death, really. Parting, yes, but that’s an open-ended grief, a curve that may one day become a circle. Death is a straight line; ask any medical professional.