Libby Doyle Quotes

“Autumn Dancer flutters among the flowers, chasing the last rays of sunlight until her haven is swallowed up by the night. Her sisters are asleep now, hidden under the fronds, but she doesn't care. She dances alone in the twilight, embracing the warmth of the golden hour, her wings sweeping past silky petals of the late summer blooms. In the safe cocoon of her garden, she dares believe that no harm will ever enter the gates. This is her world of beauty and peace, of sweet nectar and life, completely unspoiled by the footsteps of danger or the silent mockery of time.”
― Melanie Dobson, Shadows of Ladenbrooke Manor

“A butterfly fluttered from flower to flower in the old garden, gracing the silvery-blue tips of the crocuses and what remained of the icy-white petals of the lady's prized tulips. The yellow strands on the butterfly's wings shimmered in the fading light, and Libby watched the creature in its journey, mesmerized by the graceful rise and fall of its dance.
Her arms outstretched, Libby twirled around like she had as a girl, embracing the last rays of sunlight. Here in this garden, she was as free as the butterfly. Here she didn't have to hide.
The butterfly climbed above the flowers and soared toward the lily pond. Beyond the pond were more flowers, hundreds of them, and then the trees.
Soon the butterfly would curl up under a rock or leaf and rest for the night, hiding in the darkness, alone and vulnerable until the sun powered her wings again at dawn.
Libby trailed the creature around the pond to see where it would land. If the night stayed warm, she might curl up beside the butterfly to rest, but not now. She no longer had to hide in these gardens.
Soon the moonlight would glaze the paths with gold, and she would explore for hours, enveloped in the shadows and the light.”
― Melanie Dobson, Shadows of Ladenbrooke Manor

“The hill between the manor and forest displayed layers of Lady Croft's prized gardens. Paved pathways wove through a formal Italian garden, rose garden, water garden, lily pond, and a tulip garden built around Roman ruins.
Maggie stood beside a statue of the goddess Hemera and a row of yew bushes that had been neatly pruned into a wall to form the perimeter of the Croft family maze. Walter sat nearby on a picnic blanket as she scanned the hillside above the maze to see if she could find Libby's copper-streaked hair among the immaculate gardens and all the people dressed in their finest for this entree into Ladenbrooke's gardens.
The Croft family opened the front gate to the public once each summer. Hundreds of people from around the Cotswolds came to peruse Lady Croft's magnificent displays- the golden heather, purple dahlias, peach lilies floating on the pond.”
― Melanie Dobson, Shadows of Ladenbrooke Manor

“Soft moonlight enveloped her path, guiding her toward the gate like creamy white petals leading a bride to the altar. Walter didn't understand- she needed to be in these gardens. The beauty breathed life into her. Filled her very soul.
She pushed down the latch, testing it slowly to see if it was locked on the opposite side. Her heart leapt when it opened.
The lady left her gardens every autumn now when the flowers began to die, and Mummy didn't seem to care if she visited the gardens when the lady was gone. But in the summer, when the flowers were blooming, when the air smelled sweet and the butterflies danced in the breeze, Mummy and Walter didn't want her to explore.
Yet this was her sustenance. Her magic. She needed to be here as much as the butterflies needed their nectar to fly.
Quietly she closed the gate and hurried across the brick path until she reached the circular rose garden. In the center of the roses was the most lush carpet of grass. She tossed her shoes into the air, the soft grass tickling her toes. Then she stretched out her arms and twirled in the moonlight.
Some people thought the rays of the moon were cool, like the rays of the sun were warm, but they were wrong. The light from the moon was as warm as the sun, a lovely, golden warmth that electrified her from the inside.”
― Melanie Dobson, Shadows of Ladenbrooke Manor

“Eyes closed, she imagined the butterflies soaring over the petals, riding the tail of the breeze. She imagined a fairy leading their dance, her wings shimmering in the sun.
Then one of the butterflies seemed to come alive in her mind, like a character on the silver screen. Twirling in the sunlight that spilled through the window.
She was pale blue, laced with gold, and Libby could see her, inside and out, every detail on her slender body, every color on her wardrobe of wings.
Libby released her legs and sprung down onto the rug on her floor. Under her bed was a box with her old sketchbook and colored pencils. She hadn't wanted to draw in a long time. She'd only wanted to be among the flowers and butterflies.
But if she couldn't be with her friends, perhaps she could entertain them in her room.
The sketchbook in hand, she hopped back on the bed and began drawing the blue butterfly who'd twirled in the lamplight, but her butterfly looked so dull on the paper. Nothing like the butterfly she'd seen moments before.
She- Libby Doyle- was a creator, and her creation begged her for more.
Rushing to the bathroom, she filled a paper cup with water. In her parents' bedroom were tubes of special paint. And a brush. Mummy once told her she'd kept the paints to remember her father- Libby's granddad- but what better way to remember him than to use his paints to birth another life?
'Life.' She wanted to breathe light and color and life into her friends.”
― Melanie Dobson, Shadows of Ladenbrooke Manor

“She didn't look up, her gaze focused entirely on the paper before her as she drew what looked like a wing. He picked up one of the papers from the floor, and on it was a butterfly, the colors a blending of vibrant yellows and oranges.
He held out the paper. "What's this one called?"
"Golden Shimmer," she said. "She loves the sunlight."
He picked up a picture of a light-purple butterfly with a string of pearls around her neck. "And this one?"
"Lavender Lace. She has the power to heal all sorts of wounds."
He scanned the room, all the pictures on the floor. "Do they each have a name?"
Finally she looked at him, her bright-blue eyes meeting his. "Of course."
And he realized with a pang of sadness that these were Libby's friends for life.
"They are beautiful."
A glint of a smile. "Thank you."
He picked up another butterfly, this one a dark violet shade, a silver streak bleeding across the edge of its wings.
"What is she called?"
"Silver Shadow."
"Does she have a story?"
Libby's smile faded. "She's lost and can't seem to find her way home.”
― Melanie Dobson, Shadows of Ladenbrooke Manor

“In seconds, the room flooded with wide-eyed girls wanting to meet the artist of the butterfly stories.
Stories about healing and redemption. Love and friendship.
Stories about shifting shadows and an armory full of color to drive the darkness away.
"Emerald Dawn rises early before her sisters wake. With her smile, she charms the sun and chases clouds away. Diamonds hide among the silvery dew. Rubies shimmer in the roses. And she tiptoes through the castle garden to find their hiding spaces.”
― Melanie Dobson, Shadows of Ladenbrooke Manor

“The title on the front of the sketchbook was written in bold cursive: 'Libby's Book of Butterflies.'
One of the edges was folded, and she smoothed it with her hand, reverently, to honor the sister she'd never known. Then she stepped back under the light and flipped through the first pages. There were beautiful paintings of butterflies, their wings bright from the watercolors.
Did her sister create this book or did someone make it for her?
Mum had loved her gardens, but Heather had never known her to do any kind of artwork. She'd always been busy planting her flowers and working as a hairdresser and caring well for their family.
Intrigued, Heather slowly turned the pages. The butterflies were unique in their brilliance, each one with a magical name.
Golden Shimmer. Moonlit Fairy. Lavender Lace.
Under the butterflies were short descriptions. Like they all had different personalities. Her favorite was the Autumn Dancer, colored a vibrant orange and red with speckles of teal. It reminded her of a leaf, clinging to its branch before the autumn winds blew it away.”
― Melanie Dobson, Shadows of Ladenbrooke Manor

“With all the flourishes and flowers, these pictures seemed to be created by a young woman anyway. At least one who was young at heart.
Heather turned the page again to a pink butterfly named Rosa Belle, and she smiled as she read the description. Rosa Belle was a very proper butterfly, invited often to take tea with the queen in the gardens behind Buckingham Palace.”
― Melanie Dobson, Shadows of Ladenbrooke Manor

“His mother's flowers won all sorts of prizes for their beauty, but he thought Libby, with her brilliant copper-streaked hair and striking blue eyes, was more beautiful than anything found in a garden. She was an enchanting princess, reigning over a comely court.
He'd known Libby was a princess since they were children. She'd captivated him long before he started school, and for years, he'd been trying to win her attention. Some people thought she was crazy, but she wasn't. She was ethereal. Magical. Like a fairy or butterfly.
If only he could be like her. Happy and free.
She seemed to understand what so many people did not. That happiness was not found in trying to pigeonhole one's self into another's ideal. Happiness was found in embracing all you were created to be.
She twirled again in the twilight.
Libby seemed to draw energy from the flowers.”
― Melanie Dobson, Shadows of Ladenbrooke Manor

“She returned to the floor, and a tray appeared beside her with a sandwich, glass of milk, and some cubes of cantaloupe. She didn't know who brought it in, but she picked up a piece of the cantaloupe and examined it. The color matched some of the roses in the lady's garden, exactly what she needed for the flowers she'd drawn behind her butterfly.
Yellow, white, and a dab of red- she combined them on the plate until a soft peach colored her palette.
Walter thought she should grow up, like the lady wanted Oliver to do, but grown-ups didn't spend their nights dancing in gardens. Or painting. "I will stay a girl forever," she whispered, changing the lyrics from 'Peter Pan.' "And be banished if I don't."
She began to paint her butterfly.
"I'll never grow up," she chanted as she worked.
It wasn't until the first rays of dawn spilled across her paper that she began to feel sleepy. Her floor was covered with pictures and papers, but where others might see a mess, she saw a new world. There were flowers and trees and butterflies she'd brought to life with her hands. And her heart.
A lot of people thought she wasn't good at anything, but it wasn't true. She was good at making things.”
― Melanie Dobson, Shadows of Ladenbrooke Manor

“On the days Walter came to her apartment, to write down the stories of her butterflies, he always prayed with her, that in their weaknesses- both his and hers- God would be strong. That she would rely on the Creator more than her own creation.
She needed that strength now to face her demons. To remember the good things about Oliver without so many of the regrets.”
― Melanie Dobson, Shadows of Ladenbrooke Manor