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Emma Törzs Biography

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“Later, as the sisters grew, Esther hyperfocused on their differences, but as a little kid she'd been far more hypnotised by their sameness. They both loved chewing lemon peels and watermelon rinds, loved pictures of goats but not actual goats, loved putting sand in their hair so they could scratch it out later, loved watching their parents slow-dance in the living room to Motown records. They loved the sound of the wind, the sound of breaking ice, the sound of coyotes calling on the mountain. They disliked zippers, ham, the word 'milk', flute music, the gurgling sound of the refrigerator, Cecily's long weekends away, Abe's insistence on regular chess matches, and days with no clouds. They disliked the boxes of books that came to their door daily or were lugged home by their father, disliked their dusty lonesome smell and how they consumed Abe's attention. They disliked when their parents closed the bedroom door and fought in whispers. They hated the phrase 'half sister.' There had been no half about it.”

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“He'd spent the majority of his life in this house and until recently had felt he'd known it in the same alert, instinctive way he knew his own body; knew its coldest stones and softest sofas, knew the best place to find midafternoon sun, knew which rooms the staff cleaned at which hours and which rooms were rarely cleaned at all, knew every hallway, every painting. Turning a corner was like bending and elbow. Opening a door like blinking an eye.”

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“Romance novels are about connection. About people who connect with one another against the odds- despite their differences, their flaws, their secrets. In a romance novel you never have to worry, you know everything will end happily.' 'Unlike real life,' Collins said. 'In real life you have to worry.' 'Exactly. That's why I used to prefer novels.' 'Used to?' 'Now I'm not so sure.' He tilted his head. 'I've spent the last six months under a silencing spell that basically ruled out any chance I had of connecting with another person,' he said. 'Take it from me. The real thing is worth all the worry in the world.”

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“If she left- when she left- Antarctica would be a memory, than a memory of a memory, and eventually it would just be a story. Pearl would be just a story, a swirl of remembered feelings, someone she'd talk about at bars to strangers who would become friends and then strangers again. All these stories, what did they add up to? A life?”

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“Like most children, Nicholas had loved myths and fairy tales, but unlike most children he'd never seen himself in the plucky heroes and heroines who spat jewels from blessed mouths or spun wheat into gold or stumbled across magic beans, magic lamps, magic geese. His place was outside the stories, where someone, he imagined, was writing all the spells that made the magic possible. So he'd based many of his early, experimental books on the tales he enjoyed: an enchantment for a harp that made all who heard it weep; a spell to steal a person's voice and hide it in a seashell.”

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“Crystals of old honey on her body's tongue, long hardened, were loosening in the warmth of her spilling blood, turning from grain to syrup, a slow sweet hum of wings unfurling from deep within her and looping outward, solid and multitudinous, the comb in her chest and the workers in her veins, and the hive all around her.”

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“He'd never felt so passionately all-caps about another person as Pearl seemed to feel about Esther, and certainly no one had ever felt that way about him. He expected to be sad about this realisation and instead found that he was mostly curious. Maybe if he really did manage to get free of the Library once and for all, if he began to lead a life on his own terms, all-caps was a feeling he himself might someday find.”

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“Are they organised?' Nicholas called to her. 'What's your system?' 'Right now they're grouped by how many estimated uses they have left,' Joanna said, glancing away from Collins. 'I reorganise them a lot, though, just for fun.' She was aware, too late, how extremely un-fun this made her sound, but Collins saw her face and said, 'Don't worry, Nicholas is no fun, either.' 'Well, I haven't been given much of a chance, have I?' Nicholas said, carefully putting the book back in place. 'For all we know, I might be absolutely amazing at karaoke.' 'Karaoke's fun people who suck at dancing.”

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“If this is the book I think it is... I'm relatively certain it's human.' A hot, sour feeling rose in the back of Esther's throat. 'What do you mean, human?' 'I mean the thread looks like it could be a combination of hair and sinew. The glue is likely rendered collagen.' He pinched the cover between thumb and forefinger. 'The leather's probably human skin.' 'Okay,' Collins said, 'great, well, if you need me, I'll be outside screaming.”

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“Stepping through the mirror was like no physical experience he'd ever had. It was like swimming if the water was made of treacle and also of outer space, sweet and airless and tugging and infinite, and dark in a way that wasn't a binary to light but rather a different state entirely, complete unto itself. The body of the darkness was sound, which was sensation: countless wings brushing against one another, countless blades of golden grass moving in an endless wind, every distant highway ever heard.”

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“Clouds looked different from above. They peaked and valleyed like a landscape, their hollows purple with unshed water, summits blazing white and pink in the last flares of the evening sun. Knolls and mesas went wispy at the edges, trailing off into the blue sky like smoke and breaking the illusion of solidity that almost made it seem the plane could put its wheels down and land.”

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“Good-looking blue-eyed men were usually the least trustworthy of anyone- how many times had she read of a villain with "icy blue eyes"? But Collins's eyes weren't icy at all. They were homey, soft, an old-denim blue like a pair of perfectly worn-in jeans, and they were focused on her now, full of hope. She found she didn't want to say no to him.”

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“Her whole childhood, she'd devoured stories of children with dead and missing mothers, often easier to find than stories of children whose mothers were alive and well. The absence of a mother was a promise of adventure; mothers made things too safe, too comforting. Children with mothers didn't need to look outside their homes for affirmation of their supremacy in someone's story. They didn't need to write their own protagonism. Esther remembered Cecily complaining about this when they'd watched The Little Mermaid, Cinderella, and Snow White, offended by the lack of loving birth mothers and the prevalence of monstrous stepmothers. She'd squeezed Esther tight and smeared her cheek with red kisses and said, 'This evil stepmother loves you very much.' But despite Cecily's love, which Esther had never doubted, she had already identified within herself the same motherless quality that drove Ariel to shore, Cinderella to the ball, Snow White into the forest. Her motherlessness was intrinsic to her sense of self, and her sense of self was all she had these many years alone. What would it mean if her mother was alive? Not only alive, but aware of Esther and watching out for her, passing notes through magic mirrors and protecting her from afar, her own fairy godmother. What would it mean if her mother had not died, but left her?”

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“Promise me something,' she said. 'I'll promise you anything I can without lying to you again.' Pearl nodded. 'If magic really does exist, and you really can erase my memory, and I let you do it- you have to promise to come find me again once you're safe. You have to promise me to tell me everything that happened, and tell me again about your parents, and the books. Fill in all the blanks. I don't want to forget forever. I want to know.' She took a shuddering breath. 'But I don't think I can handle knowing right now. Alone.' Esther wanted this to be a promise she could keep. 'Yes,' she said. 'I promise.' 'Swear it to me,' said Pearl, extending her little finger, but instead Esther uncurled her other fingers and pressed a kiss to her palm. 'I swear it.”

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