The Grace of Wild Things

Being wise, apparently, was not knowing a lot of things, but knowing all the things you didn’t know. It was dreadful. She felt very sorry for all the wise people of the world.

Plenty of talented people in this world are useless,” the witch said. “It’s what you do with your talent that matters.

And though she'd always liked reading about faraway places, wasn't it also nice, she asked, to have somebody make you see all the beautiful things right under your nose?

Grace didn’t actually know what scullion meant. She’d come across it in a book of William Shakespeare’s poetry, and she couldn’t understand even half of William Shakespeare. But scullion was such a delicious word, harsh and slippery at the same time, the sort of word meant to be spat at an enemy in a moment of dramatic rage. For months, it had floated at the back of her head, waiting for an opportunity to burst free.

What she loved were the flashes of beauty in poems, the way the poet chose just the right word for a meadow or a river, one that made her realize there was more to meadows and rivers than she’d thought, that they had whole worlds hidden inside them. It was a different kind of magic, poetry. And she loved the strange words poets tossed about like enchantments. Evensong. Darkling. Vernal.

Eavesdropping is not a virtue in a young lady," Mrs Crumley said. "Is it a virtue in an old lady?" Grace demanded, her temper flaring. "You seem to learn half your gossip that way.

It's only right that you're confused, Windweaver said. Birds aren't for humans to understand.

The witch’s room was full of souvenirs from her travels, mostly in the form of oddly shaped vases and colorful rugs. On the mantelpiece was a skull with a crown perched on it in a mocking sort of way, and there was also a sword mounted on the wall that was clearly cursed, for every few seconds it would drip blood onto the floor and whisper, “So this is how it ends.” Grace decided that she would not be visiting the witch’s room again.

Sing to us, cedars; the twilight is creeping With shadowy garments, the wilderness through; All day we have carolled, and now would be sleeping, So echo the anthems we warbled to you . . . —E. Pauline Johnson (Tekahionwake), “The Birds’ Lullaby

Not just one friend, which would have given her enough happiness to last a lifetime, but friends. Such a lovely variety of letters that word had, with a silent little i in the middle like a secret.

You know the funny thing about fear? It’s usually mixed up with hate. Two sides of a coin. And the thing you hate most, the thing you fear, is often inside yourself. It’s what you don’t want anyone else to see.

The world was a different place once. People didn’t own forests when I was a girl. Forests simply were. We witches could drift from place to place, from wood to wood, weaving cottages from magic and whatever bits of the forest were handy…

New clothes?” Grace gaped at her. “New clothes? Oh, but I’ve never had new clothes in all my life! This is simply the most wonderful thing that’s ever happened to me. Not that I’ve experienced many wonderful things, given that mine has been a life of tragedy.” The witch rubbed between her eyes. “You are the most melodramatic little thing I’ve ever encountered.” Grace frowned. “I don’t know about that. I think there are some people who have more reason to be dramatic than others. I don’t think such people should be called melodramatic. Very few people have spent their lives in a lonely orphanage after their parents were tragically lost at sea, then had a wicked witch try to cook them alive.” “Keep harping on that and I may try again.