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417 pages, Paperback
First published September 1, 2017
“I am not changed,’ she said. ‘You never knew me. None of you ever knew me.’ It occurred to her that perhaps she had not even known herself.”Yes, at this point I will read anything Frances Hardinge chooses to put her pen to. Books, grocery lists, back of the napkin doodles — if she writes it, I will read it. Not since Terry Pratchett* have I encountered a writer of such consistent quality combined with superb imagination and originality.
* It’s the hat, isn’t it? Is that the secret?
“If someone throws aside their pride and begs with all their heart, and if they do so in vain, then they are never quite the same person afterwards. Something in them dies, and something else comes to life. Afterwards, it was as if some understanding of the world had sunk into Makepeace’s soul like winter dew. She knew that she would never feel safe or loved as she had before. And she knew that she would never, ever beg that way again.”
“Conversations became riddles with traps in them, and your answers had consequences.”
“The dread that she herself was a ‘fattened goose’ had never stopped haunting her.”
“The world was turning cartwheels, Makepeace realized, and nobody was sure which way was up any more. Rules were breaking, but nobody was certain which ones. If you had enough confidence, you could walk in and act as if you knew what the new rules were, and other people would believe you.”
“He’s no better than the other Fellmottes. Another rich man bent on what he thinks the world owes him, and willing to pay any price, as long as it’s in the blood of others.”
———
“Sometimes you had to be patient through pain, or people gave you more pain. Sometimes you had to weather everything and take your bruises. If you were lucky, and if everyone thought you were tamed and trained … there might come a time when you could strike.”
“Is the world ending?’ James asked huskily.
Makepeace moved over, wrapped her bruised arms around him and hugged him tightly.
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘What do we do?’
‘We walk,’ she said. ‘We find food, and a place to sleep. Tomorrow we do it again. We survive.”
The dead are often easier praised than the living.
Folk look for things far and wide, but seldom close.
If someone throws aside their pride and begs with all their heart, and if they do so in vain, then they are never quite the same person afterwards. Something in them dies, and something else comes to life. Afterwards, it was as if some understanding of the world had sunk into Makepeace's soul like winter dew. She knew that she would never feel safe or loved as she had before. And she knew that she would never, ever, beg that way again.
Trust was like mould. It accumulated over time in unattended areas. Trusting her was convenient; distrusting her would have been inconvenient and tiresome. Over the years, Makepeace had become encrusted with other people's inattentive trust.