Hayley

“She learned to speak in polite words”
― T. Kingfisher, Thornhedge

“How do they know?” she asked miserably. “Everyone who knew her should be dead of old age by now—them and their chin too! Their grandchildren should be gray-haired. How do they even remember there’s a tower here?”
She was talking, more or less, to a wagtail, a little bird that liked short grass and pumped its tail constantly as it walked. Wagtails were not so clever as rooks or jackdaws or carrion crows, but the fairy liked them. They did not make fun of her like the crows would, nor carry tales the way the rooms did.
The wagtail scurried closer, pumping its tail up and down.
“They must be telling stories,” said the fairy hopelessly. “About a princess in a tower and a hedge of thorns to keep princes out.”
She wiped her eyes. She knew that her eyelids were turning blue-black in response to the unshed tears.
There was no one to see her except the wagtail, but she pinched the bridge of her nose and tilted her head back anyway. The old habits were still with her.
“I can’t fight stories,” she whispered, and a few tears, dark as ink, ran down her face and tangled in her hair.”
― T. Kingfisher, Thornhedge

“Greenteeth did not slap one another—not out of any virtue, but because a slap was such a useless thing underwater. When greenteeth brawled, it was with teeth and strangling fingers, spines and claws.”
― T. Kingfisher, Thornhedge

“The love of monsters was uncomplicated”
― T. Kingfisher, Thornhedge