Frances Hardinge

Violet raised her eyebrows and just looked at Pen. Not-Triss’s spirits sank. Violet didn’t like Mr and Mrs Crescent, but adults believed adults. Adults believed in adults. Violet evidently liked Pen, but Pen told lies and Violet clearly knew that.

Memories of the previous evening crept back into her head, but did so numbly. They made her feel scraped out and empty. She wondered if soldiers felt this kind of blankness when they looked out at battlefields that had been pounded into mud and stark wasteland. There was no grieving for the lush valley that had been. Its destruction was too complete.

It was not human music; she could tell that in an instant. This was truer, purer and more chaotic, but also… colder. Human jazz was a clumsy imitation of this music, but it had blood, breath and warmth to it.