Houghton Mifflin Harcourt

We are, as a species, addicted to story. Even when the body goes to sleep, the mind stays up all night, telling itself stories

the rest of you can’t remember, but I can. We had her on top of us all the time, that enormous Moon: when she was full—nights as bright as day, but with a butter-coloured light—it looked as if she were going to crush us; when she was new, she rolled around the sky like a black umbrella blown by the wind;

Mari’s hands trembled. Mere hours ago, she had faced an imperial samurai in a game of death. The navy kimono she wore was still specked with dust from their combat. And now, she hesitated with what to say, how to comfort Hissa. Sometimes words are so much more difficult to form than fists.