Someone could cut through the mess in our house and look at it like one might look at rings on a tree or layers of sediment. They'd find the black-and-white hairs of a dog we had when I was six, the acid-washed jeans my mother once wore, the seven blood-soaked pillowcases from the time I skinned my knee. All our family secrets rest in endless piles.
Holly BlackIf they were real, then maybe the world was big enough to have magic in it. And if there was magic โ even bad magic, and Zach knew it was more likely that there was bad magic than any good kind โ then maybe not everyone had to have a story like his father's, a story like the kind all the adults he knew told, one about giving up and growing bitter.
Holly BlackYou in trouble?โ Sam asks. The way he says it, I wonder if heโs thinking about how to get out of here if I am.
Holly BlackBeing infected, being a vampire, itโ s always you. Maybe itโ s more you than ever before. Itโ s you as you always were, deep down inside.
Holly BlackMemory is slippery. It bends to our understanding of the world, twists to accommodate our prejudices. It is unreliable. Witnesses seldom remember the same things. They identify the wrong people. They give us the details of events that never happened. Memory is slippery, but my memories suddenly feel slipperier.
Holly Black