Writing stories is a kind of magic, too.
I love to read aloud.
Power. Intoxicating. Like a fine wine.
Neither Goyl nor men lived long enough to understand that yesterday was born of tomorrow, just as tomorrow was born of yesterday.
a book always keeps something of its owner between its pages.
Quite suddenly Meggie felt fear rise in her like black brackish water, she felt lost, terribly lost, she felt it in every part of her. She didn't belong here! What had she done?