Moorea Corrigan > Quotes

“Tasteful strings of flowers looped across the banisters in honor of the Spring Festival, at Mouse's request. The deep brown of the polished wood walls paired beautifully with the fine dark red carpet leading through to the unused ballroom and the study. Thornwood's magic had not retouched the bones of the great elk, but the horns were free of cobwebs and glowed white in the daylight drifting in from the clean windows above.
The tapestry stood out like a diamond in a crown, winding around the stone portion of the wall. The threads glittered in green, gold, red, silver, and blue. The faded Faerie and mortal faces were bold again, telling the story of the hunt.”
― Moorea Corrigan, Thistlemarsh

“Who is this?” John asked, bending down to the dog’s level. She nuzzled his hand, chirping as he scratched behind her ears.
“Her name is Smudge.”
“Would Smudge like a delicious cut of ham?” John asked, his voice taking on the wobbly quality he always adopted around animals, even his bees. The dragon-dog bounced merrily in place, happy to play along.
After toweling off, they took seats in John’s kitchen. He placed a plate covered with a thick slice of ham on the ground. Smudge lay down next to it and chewed on one side slowly, savoring the salt for as long as she could.
“What a well-behaved little lady,” he said, scratching between her ears. Smudge preened. Mouse knelt, taking up John’s scratching as he moved back to the stove.
“You love this attention,” she said quietly. Smudge smiled, her teeth more dragon than dog.”
― Moorea Corrigan, Thistlemarsh

“A half-Irish woman lived there with her Faerie husband, who himself was only about half good. The woman loved him with her whole heart, despite his wickedness. And he loved her, in spite of her goodness.”
― Moorea Corrigan, Thistlemarsh

“When Mouse opened Thistlemarsh's bloated front doors, her breath caught in her throat.
Without the familiar wood beneath her hands, Mouse would have mistaken Thistlemarsh Hall for a completely different building. Polished oak floors gleamed, and the faded fabric in the tapestry was returned to its original glory. Emerald woven leaves were caught midflutter on the trees, and pink and gold faces shouted joyously to one another. Outside the hunters, the Faerie figures faded into shades of pale green. Mouse had never noticed the difference before, as everything was bleached by sunlight into a dingy gray. Layers of detail were brought to light for the first time. She could even make out the tiered towers of Thistlemarsh Hall itself above the trees.”
― Moorea Corrigan, Thistlemarsh

“Tranquil and green, the rose garden was still perfectly intact. As she looked back at Thistlemarsh, the moon touched the burned ruins, highlighting the dark lines where the fire had licked the stone.
Moonlight illuminated the empty windows, and for a moment, Mouse saw silhouetted figures dancing, lit from behind in gold. Then, the image was gone, leaving only a tumbledown ruin.
Yet, despite the destruction, the young roses in the garden opened, pushing aside their green cocoons. The buds tilted upward, as though waiting for the sun. Their stems curved around the crumbled rock, and a line of bluebells sprouted at the base of the wall.”
― Moorea Corrigan, Thistlemarsh

“It was all black, except for the bottoms of its front feet and from the top of its eyes down past its nose to its neck, where its fur turned golden. Its eyes shone black, a dog's eyes except for the slight points on its pupils. Its tail was missing, although its hips shook in a pantomime of wagging. Delicately, it laid its gold paws next to her shoulder. A pink tongue darted out of its lips and licked her chin.
"I would not be surprised if it stayed in that form even after it recovers its strength. It appears happy enough," Thornwood said. "It managed to enchant your Mr. Hobb where I failed."
Mouse lifted her fingers to its jaw, and it leaned into her touch. The texture of its fur did not change from the gold fur to the black, although Mouse could not help wincing at the memory of burned silk and scales.
"Smudge," she said. It licked her fingers.
"Oh, you've named it already," Thornwood sighed. "Mickelwaithe said you might. I must warn you not to get too attached. Dragons are mercurial— this one might fly away at a shift in the wind."
"I'm glad. She suffered too long in that room. She deserves freedom."
"She?"
Mouse nodded solemnly, her fingers finding a good scratching point on the dog's shoulder. Smudge let out a cheerful bark and sank onto her stomach, her back legs sticking out straight behind her and her head balanced on her front legs.
Thornwood settled in his chair with the book propped open in his lap. "Do not blame me if it starts coughing up fireballs on your bedspread."
"Don't listen to the rude Faerie, Smudge.”
― Moorea Corrigan, Thistlemarsh

“According to Blakeney’s, Brownies were common Faeries who would do magic in exchange for shelter or food, but no such offering had been made. Gnomes were more interested in gardens, anyway, and they were a kind of common Faerie who lived in colonies. Imps favored ruins.
Thornwood laughed at a story featuring a unicorn.”
― Moorea Corrigan, Thistlemarsh

“The station walls boasted an intricate mosaic. A string of figures walked across it, some Faerie, some human. Roses wrapped around their feet, the petals caressing them while the thorns bit into their clothes.
The Faeries’ painted forms were elevated, every feature exaggerated into something divine. Mouse doubted that the famed first mortal king of England, Alfred, looked quite so handsome as he did on the station wall. Next to him stood a tall, dark-haired Faerie with a billowing black cloak. He was a figure familiar to every child in England: Oberon, the former king of the Faeries.
Further down the line, Queen Elizabeth Tudor exuded graceful beauty, her face framed by a striking white frill and her clothing contrasting that of the Faerie King at her side, adorned with her crown of gold. Her skin was as pale and flawless as his, a sun to his moon.
Oberon walked beside another two English monarchs before another Faerie took his place: a golden-haired Faerie woman with a gown as white as a dove. This pattern of Faerie and mortal monarchs continued until it ended in a final tableau of a befuddled George III pushed behind a young George IV, both gazing after the Faerie man striding out in front of them. That was where the mosaic ended, with the final Faerie King’s face cut in half at the arched doorway. On the other side of the doorway, an image of Queen Victoria stood alone, looking back at the parade of mortal rulers and Faerie monarchs behind her.”
― Moorea Corrigan, Thistlemarsh

“Thistlemarsh itself nourished her during this time, like the hand of her mother reaching out to her through time. The passageways house the stories from Lady Blakeney’s Tales, becoming the glens and snowcapped mountains in Mouse’s imagination.
Mr. Hobb, the groundskeeper, indulged her as they attempted to imagine the purpose of the hidden rooms. Mouse was always ready for them to be Faerie spy nooks, where they could catalog the offenses of their human hosts. Though he did not stifle her speculation, Mr. Hobb thought they were only built to keep the servants out of sight of guests.”
― Moorea Corrigan, Thistlemarsh

“The dragon-dog let out a wheezy bark. A puff of smoke billowed out from behind her teeth. Mouse bumped Smudge's nose with the tip of her finger. "None of that, please. I think we've had enough surprises lately.”
― Moorea Corrigan, Thistlemarsh

“Warm, low light colored everything, although Mouse could not spot its source. Sanded circles of glass in every color glittered from long threads that hung off branches, a galaxy speckling the air. A heap of blankets covered Thornwood’s bed each made of a different material. From where she stood, she could make out the top three layers: a pale green blanket made of silk, a dark red one of velvet, and a mustard yellow one in cotton. Judging by the fabrics’ slope, more layers hid underneath.
They led Thornwood to his bed. Mouse had to hold him back as Mickelwaithe turned down the sheets. She let him go, and he sank into the cocoon of fabric. The scent of wood, must, and mint fluttered off the blankets as Mickelwaithe spread them over him. Thornwood’s expression softened in moments, and his breathing evened as he fell asleep.”
― Moorea Corrigan, Thistlemarsh

“Even the smoggy city became a tapestry of magic when painted with her mother’s words. When the other women gathered to wash their clothes and linen in the basement of the tenement building, her mother would recount the tale of the Faerie of Gold Bottom Lake, who, if caught in the form of a fish, would grant wishes. When they would walk through the busy streets to the market, she would tell of Tom Bluebell, who connected the top of London Bridge to Faerie Land with the touch of his finger.”
― Moorea Corrigan, Thistlemarsh

“The evening was remarkably fine for early spring. Thistlemarsh Hall lay against the lawn like a forlorn jewelry box, framed in unruly embroidered green velvet. Mouse’s father had designed the gardens as an intricate pattern of interweaving vines to complement the Elizabethan splendor of the architecture. The Hall’s towers sprang from each corner, carved with flowers and thistles. The mass of windows along each side meant that the sun could shine through the house at certainties of day, illuminating the inside.”
― Moorea Corrigan, Thistlemarsh

“Magic is a conversation. One asks the stone to rebuild the wall, and the stone listens for the price of your energy. It is all compromise.”
― Moorea Corrigan, Thistlemarsh

“You have the advantage of creating and nurturing with gardening.”
― Moorea Corrigan, Thistlemarsh

“gardening is the only occupation where you must care for your work after you have created it. It has the advantage as well of both outliving you and surprising you. Like children.”
― Moorea Corrigan, Thistlemarsh