Laina SpareTime

“Few things in Avonlea ever escaped Mrs. Lynde. It was only that morning Anne had said, "If you went to your own room at midnight, locked the door, pulled down the blind, and sneezed, Mrs. Lynde would ask you the next day how your cold was!”
― L. M. Montgomery, Anne of Avonlea

“The flames guttered around Abigail Pent. She looked terrified, uplifted, and openly astonished; she looked faraway, as though she were no longer even truly with them. Her spectacles had slipped off her nose, and in that blazing blue corona her eyes were dark and liquid and—feral. The House of the Fifth always skinned itself over with such airs of civilisation, with so many manners and niceties, but they were spirit-talkers, and speakers to the dead. And the dead were savage.”
― Tamsyn Muir, Harrow the Ninth

“Luca can’t ever work out if she’s really that jarring to listen to, or if people are just not used to a girl who looks so soft being made of so many razor-sharp pieces.”
― Rebecca Barrow, Bad Things Happen Here

“What do you think is sexy?” said Nona, in her normal voice.
Pyrrha seemed pleased to think about something different, and waited until the bubbles were getting really big before she took the spatula and slid it under a rising patty, flipping it over. Nona had come up by her elbow to watch.
“Do you want to know what I really think is sexy, or what I’d tell someone if they asked and I wanted to impress them?”
Nona was pleased Pyrrha understood.
“The first one.”
“Landmine people,” said Pyrrha, and when she saw Nona’s brows cross in confusion, she said: “Some people were put into the universe to rig it to explode, then walk away… I always fell for that.”
Nona thought she got it, but was unsure on a few points.
“But you can’t really tell that about someone when you first look at them.”
“Oh, you can,” said Pyrrha. “You haven’t looked for it.” She flipped over another pikelet, looked grave and intelligent for a moment, and then said: “I mean, also redheads. Love a redhead.”
Apart from Pyrrha, whose hair was a very deep dark russet, Honesty was the only redhead that Nona knew, and Honesty had big, pallid blue eyes that he could make float in different direction, when one wasn’t smushed. He also had skin like a horrible ghost’s. You could see all the veins in his eyelids. Nona said, “Okay. I don’t think redheads are sexy.”
“What? Hang on,” said Camilla, opening the door—no, Palamedes, opening the door, busy buttoning himself into Camilla’s jacket—“That’s a very interesting thing you just said, Nona. Let me write that down. Is that pikelets Pyrrha? You’re a legend.”
Nona wondered how Palamedes couldn’t see the hitch in Pyrrha’s shoulder, nor all the crinkles in her posture or her clothes that screamed PARK…PARK…PARK…, but took her moment.
“Palamedes, what do you think is sexy?”
“Those little outfits nurses wear,” said Palamedes promptly.
So Camilla had been lying, after all.”
― Tamsyn Muir, Nona the Ninth