Murder by Memory

...I didn't want to lose you and now you're saved and everything is fiiiiiiiiiiine!" Everything was evidently not fine.

Having nephews really wasn’t always bad. Ruthie might have been an agent of chaos, and his brilliance never seemed to bring him anything but trouble, but he was also a kind heart. Sometimes that was more important than all the rest.

The Fairweather exists to preserve a future for humanity -- including our knowledge, inventions, and skills. And knowing how to circumvent the authorities is often a historically necessary skill.

What’s the use of loving someone if you must defend your heart against them? What good is passion if it comes without trust?

And that is why you didn't put painkillers in my tea. Because I admired your knitting." "Don't you read history? People have killed for much less. And not-killing is even easier. People do it all the time.

Gloria's office...was sleek and cold and gray. Just like Gloria's suit -- or, I thought privately, like Gloria's heart. Meticulous as a shark in pursuit of what she wanted, heedless of the damage done to anyone else.

Gloria's office...was sleek and cold an gray. Just like Gloria's suit -- or, I thought privately, like Gloria's heart. Meticulous as a shark in pursuit of what she wanted. heedless of the damage done to anyone else.

I remember now I felt them die....things got rather scrambly and now they're just there, a bland spot interrupting all my comfortable scans. The ship made a noise of profound unhappiness. It itches.

I let out a long breath. “And that’s why you didn’t put painkillers in my tea. Because I admired your knitting.” “Don’t you read history? People have killed for much less. And not-killing is even easier. People do it all the time.

Was there anywhere better than a yarn store? And this one was exceptional, just organized enough to feel controlled but full of enough color and texture to be a riotous sensual feast. From the threshold I was lured forward by delicate skeins of mohair and long twists of tweed, soft woolens and shimmering silks in everything from vivid rainbows to elegant neutrals. Needles in various sizes, straight and circular, filled a row of glass jars on the wall, commodities that doubled as decor.

Besides, I’d never knit with a murderer’s hands, and I wasn’t about to start now.

My hands—I might as well start thinking of them as mine, since nobody else was using them—itched to get around a pair of knitting needles. Better to count stitches and rows and cable crosses than to dwell on what I’d lost. Or rather, what I’d kept, and what Celia had lost.

Oh, Ruthie was well-intentioned, even a genius in some very specific ways, but the boy had a talent for chaos that was an equal to the strong nuclear force.

It hurt to lose love. I knew first hand how much. And the wounds from tearing one's heart free of someone else's always left scars. What good is passion if it comes without trust?