Lady Jayne Disappears

I think I know the perfect prayer.” I twirled a dandelion before my face and closed my eyes. “God, give me exactly what I would ask for if I knew everything you know.” His eyes sparkled in response. “Brilliant.

Every girl is bon with the ability to be herself. Many simply unlearn it because they do not like who that is, and they think no one else will either.

Rich is the man who sees value in every person, even if there is none to be found.

God, give me exactly what I would ask for if I knew everything you know.

Sometimes God wipes away man's pride in a burst of stormy power, but usually it's done quietly and gradually.' Like my weeks spent at Lynhurst, slowly evolving and changing me, one challenge and heartache at a time. 'He seems to answer prayers the same way, doesn't he? At least, he has with mine. Not in one big powerful move, but gradually so I don't notice until I've turned around and see that I have exactly what I need.

For a writer, revenge was best saved for an empty notebook where the pen was, indeed, a mighty weapon against her foes.

Too often we cut away essential elements of ourselves to fit into a mold and discover those elements were vital to who we are, and our improvements have only made us more ordinary.

Sometimes it’s a wonder God knows what to do with all our requests.

She slept very well at night, owing to the fact that she never took her bitterness into bed with her.

Shame is reserved for those who disappoint God, not people.

No one understood her love of reading, but to Lady Jayne, fiction was far better than real life— it always had to make sense, and real life seldom did.

She wore bright colors and flowers in her hair on ordinary days because life itself, the fleeting, precious gift, was her special occasion.

As I curled my hurting self over my notebook, writing moved quickly from idle pastime to a necessity, and I plunged into it with the desperate obsession of one clinging to a life raft. Broken, aching, I cracked my delicate heart like a fragile eggshell and poured its contents onto the page. The words flowed quickly, rich and poignant. Painful and vulnerable. Pieces of myself floated into Lady Jayne’s character, and anyone who read this would see me in the pages.

I much prefer to attempt a friendship, try to fit in, rather than avoid everyone altogether.” He hesitated a moment before speaking. “Must you do such a thing? You were quite unusual, just as you were. I much prefer that to you becoming a duplicate of everyone else.

How could I explain to him the heart of a writer? An artist’s life and work were woven together to make up the very fabric of his being. Condemning his work was to also condemn him personally. For it was everything about me that had created the work that was under scrutiny— my experiences, the love and pain of my true heart, the culminating effort of my entire life.

He always knew the exact second it was time to rescue my heart from the heaviness of life. He could swim deep with me for long minutes, delving into important conversations on humanity and relationships, then draw me back up to skim the sun-dappled surface when my thoughts became too heavy.

Then, with my grief at its peak, I bled my pain onto the page, spreading its black inkiness in perfect swooping letters. Raw, concise phrases reviewed the true hurt of fresh loss. How cleansing to cut one’s own heart open and lay it on the page. Cleansing, yet terrifying. These were the feelings most people worked to hide from the outside world— even loved ones who might sympathize. And her I was, setting them down in black and white, ready to ship into a world of strangers who did not know me.

And the maiden found her escape in books, the words created by the pen of some stranger who would creep into her mind and rearrange the furniture.

Quite often, villains of one story were heroes in another.

How was one to answer these meaningless questions, really? 'A fine day today, is it not, sir? How was your walk? I trust you are in good health this morning.' He should tell them the day was terrible, he had witnessed a murder, and he'd walked to the moon, just to see what they would do.

I admit I'm an escapist when it comes to books. I become drunk on story, on words, as a buffer against reality.' . . . If books were alcohol, he'd be the worst drunk in history.

I only want you to be who you actually are.” “That person doesn’t belong here.” “You will never belong here, Miss Aurelie Harcourt of Shepherd Mallet. Not one bit. And may it always be so.

Lady Pochard: I do believe you could find the good in a reptile Mr. Rotherford. What do you have to say about me then? Silis Rotherham: You have a highly acute perception stemming from a combination of the sharp wit you were born with and trials that would shock your family. Lady Poch: A wise answer. You might even be smarter than the man that had the good sense to choose me as a wife. Silis Rotherham: I am merely intentional about recognizing the good in people – a little something to combat all the critics in the world. Lady Pochard: I’m not sure whether to call that foolish or brilliant! Silis Rotherham: I settle for obedient. It was God’s idea, not mine

It must be utterly clear to him that I was a fake, not one who belonged at Lynhurst Manor. Up until a few days ago, my life had consisted of a one-room cell, my gregarious, boisterous father, and our three pieces of furniture.