“It will atone - it will atone. Have I not found her friendless, and cold, and comfortless? Will I not guard, and cherish, and solace her? Is there not love in my heart, and constancy in my resolves? It will expiate at God's tribunal. I know my maker sanctions what I do. For the world's judgement - I wash my hands thereof. For man's opinion - I defy it.”

“I spent the best years of my life atoning for something I didn't do, something my parents didn't do, something done just about before I was ever even born. I got no complaints with that, but I'm about all atoned out, and I ain't yet gotten round to atoning for the things I did do.”

“If I have to watch my precious comrades die with my own eyes, I would not be able to atone for it no matter how many times I died.”

“You know what you are, don’t you?” she asks. “You’re my salvation. My way to atone. To pay for everything I’ve done."“Anna,” I say. “Don’t ask me to do this.”

“My name is Mary Katherine Blackwood. I am eighteen years old, and I live with my sister Constance. I have often thought that with any luck at all, I could have been born a werewolf, because the two middle fingers on both my hands are the same length, but I have had to be content with what I had. I dislike washing myself, and dogs, and noise. I like my sister Constance, and Richard Plantagenet, and Amanita phalloides, the death-cup mushroom. Everyone else in our family is dead.”

“Instinctively, and against my better judgement, I pull her closer to me. She rests her head on my shoulder as if it is the most natural thing in all the worlds to do.But it's a mistake. I become aware of her heart beating, her lungs expanding with every breath, her skin beneath my touch.She moves, and her head slides to my chest. Shifting into sleep, she wraps her arm around my waist. Now I'm aware of my heart beating too, slowly, in sync with hers. I know I should push her away. But if my life depended on it, right now, that would be impossible.”