It was not the time to recall all those really horrifying nursery stories she'd read, Bluebeard, Babes in the Wood, Little Red Riding Hood. Why is it that children's stories are so fill. . .
The tapestry of her life was dotted with threadbare spots, where grief or pain or loss had eaten through like hungry moths. But those faint traces, instead of detracting from the resple. . .
Memories of her, however, would remain with him. Everywhere he’d look, she would be there, as if she were a hundred women, all shadow and wraith, marking each place at Tyemorn and Ayl. . .