Happiness in life is not a given, it must be seized.

She was the sort of person for whom fear was the natural response to that beyond explanation.

...She's understood the power of stories. Their magical ability to refill the wounded part of people.

A twinge at the edge of her lips and she continued, the soft, slow lilt of recitation: "Ancient walls that sing the distant hours.

You make a life out of what you have, not what you're missing.

Cassandra wondered at the mind's cruel ability to toss up flecks of the past. Why, as she neared her life's end, her grandmother's head should ring with the voices of people long since gone. Was it always this way? Did those with passage booked on death's silent ship always scan the dock for faces of the long-departed?

A girl expecting rescue never learns to save herself. Even with the means, she will find her courage wanting.