Maggie Stiefvater

“Maybe it wouldn’t hurt if I kiss you,” he whispered. “Maybe it’s only if you kiss me.”

If Blue was to kiss her true love, he would die.

If Blue was to kiss her true love, he would die.

Blue never grew tired of feeling particularly needed, but sometimes she wished needed felt less like a synonym for useful.

The way Gansey saw it was this: If you had a special knack for finding things, it meant you owed the world to look.

Psychics tended to tell him he had money coming his way and that he was destined for great things. The first one he knew was always true and the second one he was afraid might be.

And everywhere, everywhere, there were books. Not the tidy stacks of an intellectual attempting to impress, but the slumping piles of a scholar obsessed.

“That sounds like either the beginning of a torture session or a music video.”

When she looked at the stars, something tugged at her, something that urged her to see more than stars, to make sense of the chaotic firmament, to pull an image from it. But it never made sense. She only ever saw Leo and Cepheus, Scorpio and Draco. Maybe she just needed more horizon and less city.

More than anything, the journal wanted. It wanted more than it could hold, more than words could describe, more than diagrams could illustrate. Longing burst from the pages, in every frantic line and every hectic sketch and every dark-printed definition. There was something pained and melancholy about it.