The Story Sisters

When I walk, I walk with you. Where I go, you're with me always.

Sometimes words drew blood, they cut your tongue, they made you know things you couldn't unknow.

Some stories stayed with you even when you wanted to forget them.

I can hurt myself more than anyone else can," she told her sister. "I can do it with my eyes closed.

Maybe some love was guaranteed. Maybe it fit inside you and around you like skin and bones.

She didn't like being twelve. It felt like someplace between who she'd been and who she was about to be. It felt like no place at all.

In a world of sorrow, love was an act of will. All you needed were the right ingredients.

They weren't true stories; they were better than that.

He was in love, and people in that condition did stupid, unfathomable things. They were all flawed, every single one.

Everything was red, the air, the sun, whatever I looked at. Except for him. I fell in love with someone who was human. I watched him walk through the hills and come back in the evening when his work was through. I saw things no woman would see: that he knew how to cry, that he was alone. I cast myself at him, like a fool, but he didn't see me. And then one day he noticed I was beautiful and he wanted me. He broke me off and took me with him, in his hands, and I didn't care that I was dying until I actually was.

Another world must surely exist somewhere one where she would be known in some deep way that was far beyond words.

The only people out at this hour were ones who couldn't sleep, those haunted by one thing or another: love thwarted, love lost, love thrown away. They were the sort of people who didn't want to be noticed, who wanted to slip through shadows, be alone with their despair.

A boy who is trouble is something entirely different as a man.

That was the way love was, invisible, there whether or not you wanted to see it or admit to it.

The nature of love had totally escaped her until now. She had thought that if you lost it, you could never get it back, like a stone thrown down a well. But it was like the water at the bottom of the well, there when you can't even see it, shifting in the dark.

...even though she felt a wave of dread. If they knew she was nervous, she'd be at their mercy. But if they thought she was ice they'd be afraid to touch her.

I cast myself at him, like a fool, but he didn't see me. And then one day he noticed I was beautiful and he wanted me. He broke me off and took me with him, in his hands, and I didn't care that I was dying until I actually was.

Your grand daughter may not be looking for trouble, but trouble is looking for her.

What people called the truth seemed worthless to her; what was it but a furtive, bruised story to convince yourself life was worth living.

What was a demon but a lost soul, one that had been forced to use his skills to survive.

Demons were said to be cruel, but a demon would never have been so brutal as this. A demon merely called you by name, threw his arms around you, whispered his plight, understood yours, then took you for his own.

If you believed in something strongly and give it enough credence, it could appear right in front of you. Though it had been created in your mind, it would claim a presence in the real world, a monster at your door, a demon pulling at your coat sleeve.

If she wanted to enter an otherworld, all she had to do was open a novel.

He still wanted to believe that people could survive their misfortunes. He believed that was all anyone had.

You don't forget the people you love," she told him. "That's what I've realized. They just get farther away. Like a spyglass turned around. Annie to Pete

In the human world you had to choose your loyalties carefully. You had to see through to someone's heart.

...the summer of the gypsy moths when all the trees in their yard were bare, the leaves chewed by caterpillars. You could hear crunching in the night. You could see silvery cocoon webbing in porch rafter and strung across stop signs.

...the eldest who had the misfortune of being too beautiful and had a far off look in her eyes. Madame Cohen had seen what could happen to girls like that, they were picked off like fruit on a tree, devoured by blackbirds.

Meg was a great reader and was never without a book; while walking to school she often had one open in her hands, so engrossed she would sometimes trip while navigating familiar streets.

Pete wondered if the endings of things gathered in the corners of a room, hanging down like a spider's web, waiting.