She finds tales everywhere, in grains of sand she picks up from the garden, in puffs of smoke that drift out from the chimneys of the village, in fragments of smooth timber or glass in the jetsam. She will ask them, "Where did you come from? How did you get here?" And they will answer her in voices very like her own, but with new lilts and squeaks and splashes in them that show they are their own.

They say that shoulder blades are where your wings were, when you were an angel," she said. "They say they're where your wings will grow again one day.

This is our world. Aye, there's more than enough of darkness in it. But over everything there's all this joy, Kit. There's all this lovely, lovely light.

Writing will be like a journey, every word a footstep that takes me further into undiscovered land.

Maybe we're all in somebody's dream. Maybe everything's a dream, and nothing else.

The dead are often known to eat 27 and 53

Anything seems possible at night when the rest of the world has gone to sleep.