Hayley

“She was neither beautiful nor made of malice, as many of the Fair Folk are said to be. Mostly she was fretful and often tired.”
― 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

“It was in Toadling’s nature to try to please.”
― T. Kingfisher, Thornhedge

“I have come because of a story,” he said. “You were right that everyone who might have told it is dead. I read it in a book. Several books.” Toadling felt her stomach drop. Books. Books were terribly expensive.”
― T. Kingfisher, Thornhedge