“I had seen a photograph of Sara at two. In it, her hair is platinum and falls around her face in happy disarray. She is dressed in yellow. Babyhood clings to her still and in the sunlight she appears incandescent. She is golden and delicious, sweet as a lemon drop. But her father never asks to see her.”

“Father, R.I.P., Sums Me Up at Twenty-ThreeShe has no head for politics,craves good jewelry, trusts too readily,marries too early. Thenone by one she sends away her friendsand stands apart, smug sapphire,her answer to everything a slenderzero, a silent shrug--and every daystill hears me say she'll never be pretty.Instead she reads novels, instead her beltmatches her shoes. She is masterof the condolence letter, and knowshow to please a man with her mouth:Good. Nose too large, eyes too closely set,hair not glorious blonde, not her mother's red,nor the glossy black her younger sister has,the little raven I loved best.”

“We are all inexorably wound together as individuals, as families, as communities, and as a society. We must take care to value, accommodate, and, at times, assist the variety and diversity, each unique facet, in the noble work - the blessed art - of family.”

“And then she knew. No vision had ever terrified him. Never. In seventeen years. It was as if his own life were at stake. But he didn't See his own future. He only saw other's. She suddenly had a terrible feeling that she knew exactly whose future he'd Seen. Her voice was a whisper. "Do I get hurt?" His face contorted, but he didn't say anything. "Oh my god. Do I die?" He closed his eyes. "Oh." The air rushed out of her lungs on that one word. She was going to die. Luke's voice was tight, tortured when he said, "We gotta go." He bent down to pick up Sera's bag again, then headed out the door. Sera looked down at her feet. Their book bags lay there. She should probably pick those up, she thought. Luke was already on the porch, waiting. She reached down and grasped the bags, then woodenly stepped outside. Luke stared at her a moment, searching her face, then reached around her and locked the door. He started down the steps, but her voice stopped him. "Luke?" He turned to look at her. She was going to die. She knew she was going to die. But she couldn't stop herself from asking even though she already knew the answer. "Have you ever had a vision that didn't come true?" she said. "Ever?”

“She remembered that once, when she was a little girl, she had seen a pretty young woman with golden hair down to her knees in a long flowered dress, and had said to her, without thinking, "Are you a princess?" The girl had laughed very kindly at her and asked her what her name was. Blanche remembered going away from her, led by her mother's hand, thinking to herself that the girl really was a princess, but in disguise. And she had resolved that someday, she would dress as though she were a princess in disguise.”

“Shivering as she gripped the handle, she looked around the cabin one last time. The uneasiness was still there. Why wouldn’t it leave her be?”

“Henry chuckled. "I expect Helen to be Helen. It wouldn't be fair to tell her I love her and then insist she change who she is. What kind of love would that be?”