Those who decided to stick with her would be her true friends. The others would just be scenery.

She accepted it from then on. Books liked her. Books wanted to look after her.

...a sad sort of vulnerability was wafting from her, making the night smell like maple syrup.

There was a certain power beautiful mothers held over their less beautiful daughters.

He had a smug smile on his lips like he knew, even in his sleep, that women all around him were dying from love because he'd taken their hearts and hidden them where they'd never find them.

I spent so much time telling myself that this wasn't home that I started to believe it," she said carefully. "Belonging has always been tough for me." I can be your home," he said quietly. "Belong to me.

It was like she was MADE of cake, light and pretty and decorated on the outside-with her sweet laugh and pink streak to her hair-but it was anyone's guess what was on the inside.