She did as she felt, and she felt a great deal.

She felt like a fictional character who'd escaped the book in which her creator had carefully and kindly trapped her, taken a pair of scissors to her outline and leaped, free.

She was the breeze on a summer's day, the first drops of rain when the earth was parched, light from the evening star.

That, my dear, is what makes a character interesting, their secrets.

The world was an awfully large place and it wasn't easy to find a person who'd gone missing sixty years earlier, even if that person was oneself.

Reluctance to begin is quick to befriend procrastination. . . .

It didn't occur to him that she might have chosen to remain this way. That where he saw reserve and loneliness, Cassandra saw self-preservation and the knowledge that it was safer when one had less to lose.