I nod like I'm not at all unnerved by this new cold side to him. Not cruel like his father. Not warm like the husband who sought me out on quiet nights. Something in between. This Linden has never woven his fingers through mine, never chosen me from a line of weary Gathered girls, never said he loved me in a myriad of coloured lights. We are nothing to each other.

Words like 'unputdownable' and 'irresistible' are simply not enough for Cat Winters's In the Shadow of Blackbirds. Days after finishing this story, it remains the first thought I have in the morning, and the thing that haunts me until I sleep.

There's a sort of dead passion in him. A spark that, had he more years to live, would be a wildfire.

It was my fifth grade teacher who introduced the idea that writing could be more than a hobby for me.

Maybe hope isn't the most dangerous thing a person can have. Maybe love is.

There is no choice for him but to believe. He has nothing left to give in offering.

I start trying to stay unconscious. The problem with this is that no amount of willpower can change the reality.