“Gran’s cottage might be tiny, and the furniture old and battered, but she ran a tight ship. As long as everything is in its right place, there’s plenty of room, she liked to say.”

“People die', she says. 'People tear down houses. But furniture, fine, beautiful furniture, it just goes on and on, surviving everything.' She says, 'Armoires are the cockroaches of our culture.”

“She realized that home wasn't a place. It was here, safe in his arms. As long as she had this, everything would be all right.”

“The rain battered the cottage. Valkyrie risked a look up at Skulduggery.“What is it?” she whispered.“It’s a box,” he whispered back.“What kind of box?”“A wooden one.”She gave him a look.”

“She could talk. If she was a sphinx she could have talked, if she was a stone she could have talked. I wondered when she'd get tired and leave. Even after I stopped listening it was like being battered with tiny pingpong balls.”

“The house seemed so different at night. Everything was in its correct place, of course, but somehow the furniture seemed more angular and the pictures on the wall more one-dimensional. She remembered somebody saying that at night we are all strangers, even to ourselves, and this struck her as being true.”