My Children Were All Made From Paper

No Prince Had Lived In Those Wretched Hovels, No Red-robed Bishops, Only Farmers And Laborers Whose Stories No One Had Written Down, And Now They Were Lost, Buried Under Wild Thyme And Fast Growing Spurge.

Dustfinger Still Clearly Remembered The Feeling Of Being In Love For The First Time. How Vulnerable His Heart Had Suddenly Been! Such A Trembling, Quivering Thing, Happy And Miserably Unhappy At Once.

Reality Is A Fragile Thing.

Dustfinger Inspected His Reddened Fingers And Felt The Taut Skin. ‘he Might Tell Me How My Story Ends,’ He Murmured. Meggie Looked At Him In Astonishment. ‘you Mean You Don’t Know?’ Dustfinger Smiled. Meggie Still Didn’t Particularly Like His Smile. It Seemed To Appear Only To Hide Something Else. ‘what’s So Unusual About That, Princess?’ He Asked Quietly. ‘do You Know How Your Story Ends?’ Meggie Had No Answer For That.

The Book She Had Been Reading Was Under Her Pillow, Pressing Its Cover Against Her Ear As If To Lure Her Back Into Its Printed Pages.