Guess what it is that turns plants to coal. Pressure. Guess what it is that turns limestone to marble. Pressure. Guess what it is that turns Briony's heart to stone. Pressure. Pressure is uncomfortable, but so are the gallows. Keep your secrets, wolfgirl. Dance your fists with Eldric's, snatch lightning from the gods. Howl at the moon, at the blood-red moon. Let your mouth be a cavern of stars.
Franny BillingsleyI am entirely well,โ said Eldric, โwhich has Dr. Rannigan exploring first one theory, then another, trying to understand. But not being a man of science, I donโt care about understanding. I simply want to go outside and break a few windows.
Franny BillingsleyThere are no preconditions for jealousy. You don't have to be right, you don't have to be reasonable. Take Othello. He was neither right nor reasonable, and Desdemona ended up dead. I wouldn't mind Leanne ending up dead. I wouldn't mind exploding her into fireworks of peacock and pearl.
Franny BillingsleyFatherโs silence is not merely the absence of sound. Itโs a creature with a life of its own. It chokes you. It pinches you small as a grain of rice. It twists in your gut like a worm. Silence clawed at my throat. It left a taste of burnt matches.
Franny BillingsleyThis is what I want. I want people to take care of me. I want them to force comfort upon me. I want the soft-pillow feeling that I associate with memories of being ill when I was younger, soft pillows and fresh linens and satin-edged blankets and hot chocolate. It's not so much the comfort itself as knowing there's someone who wants to take care of you.
Franny BillingsleyShould I ever again sink into illness, I'm sure I'll remember Eldric. I'll remember he cared for me. I'll remember that someone had at least taken the time to touch my face.
Franny BillingsleyI should hate to be a regular girl with a sugar-plum voice. I should hate to have swan-like lashes, and a thick, sooty neck. I sound as though Iโm joking, I know, but I should truly hate to be like Leanne, so charming and ordinary and stuffed with clichรฉd feelings. Iโm glad Iโm the ice maiden. Who wants to be crying over every stray dog? Not I. Scratch my surface and what do you see? More surface.
Franny Billingsley