She wanted to return to her dream. Perhaps it was still somewhere there behind her closed eyelids. Perhaps a little of its happiness still clung like gold dust to her lashes. Don't dreams in fairy tales sometimes leave a token behind?

Killing is easy," said Mo, "Dying is harder.

And my father always took me to the library. We were both book addicts.

Isn't it odd how much fatter a book gets when you've read it several times?

Why could she remember nothing but stories of frightened people when Capricorn looked at her? She usually found it so easy to escape somewhere else, to get right inside the minds of people and animals who existed only on paper, so why not now? Because she was afraid. "Because fear kills everything," Mo had once told her. "Your mind, your heart, your imagination.

Since when does the butterfly ask about the caterpillar?

Where did the love come from? What was it made of?