“Sometimes, Johannes would pop his head in the filing room and ask, "Need anything?" 'Yes. I would like you to ravage me here on the floor and swear your undying love to me.'"No. Thanks. I'm good.”

“There is much asked and only so much I think I can or should answer, and so, in this post I would like to give a few thoughts on what seemed to be the overwhelming question: “WHY?”And here is the best answer I can give: Because.Because sometimes, life is damned unfair.Because sometimes, we lose people we love and it hurts deeply.Because sometimes, as the writer, you have to put your characters in harm’s way and be willing to go there if it is the right thing for your book, even if it grieves you to do it.Because sometimes there aren’t really answers to our questions except for what we discover, the meaning we assign them over time.Because acceptance is yet another of life’s “here’s a side of hurt” lessons and it is never truly acceptance unless it has cost us something to arrive there.Why, you ask? Because, I answer.Inadequate yet true.”

“We created order out of chaos. We made beauty and shaped history. We kept the magic of the realms safe in our grasp. How has it come to this?" "You've not kept it safe. You've kept it to yourselves."She shakes her head to dismiss the thought. "Gemma, you may still use the power for much good. With us to help you-""And what, pray, have you done to better the lot of others?" I ask. "You call each other sisters, but are we not all sisters? The seamstress ruining her eyesight to keep her children in porridge? The suffragists fighting for the vote? The girls younger than I who would ask for a living wage, whose working conditions are so deplorable they were locked in a burning factory? they could make use of your precious help."She holds her head high. "We would have done so. In time."I snort in disgust. "It is daunting to be a woman in any world. What good does our power do us when it must be kept secret?""You would prefer bold voices to illusion?""Yes.”

“Usually, I avoid the topic by shoving food into my mouth then making "I'm sorry, as you can see, it would be rude for me to speak" hand signals”

“I am not asking you to understand, Papa. I'm asking for you to accept.""Accept what?"Me. Accept me, Papa. "My decision to live my own life as I see fit."It is so quiet that I suddenly wish I could take it back. Sorry, it was only a terrible joke. I should like a new dress, please.”

“I thought research would be more glamorous, somehow. I'd give the librarian a secret code word and he'd give me the one book I needed and whisper the necessary page numbers. Like a speakeasy. With books.”

“It isn't the bloody weather!"I've shocked them into silence. I should stop. Apologize for my outburst. Make amends. Blame the climate. But I cannot. Something in me has given way and it cannot be put back again. "Did you know that he had returned to the laudanum? That he couldn't give it up? That our good intentions were not nearly so powerful as his will to die?... No, Thomas. Is this the life you want for me? To be like you? To wear blinders and talk of nothing that matters and drink weak tea with other people who would do anything to hide the truth, especially from themselves?”