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Lucinda Riley

Lucinda Riley Books

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“The day on which she turned eleven, Grandfather Bill had presented her with her very own orchid. "This is especially for you, Julia. Its name is 'Aerides odoratum,' which means 'children of the air.'" Julia studied the delicate ivory and pink petals of the flower sitting in its pot. They felt velvety beneath her touch. "Where does this one come from, Grandfather Bill?" she had asked. "From the Orient, in the jungles of Chiang Mai in northern Thailand." "Oh. What kind of music do you think it likes?" "It seems particularly partial to a touch of Mozart," chuckled her grandfather. "Or if it looks like it's wilting, perhaps you could try some Chopin!”

“Ik bedoel, ik dacht dat ik wilde schrijven, maar dat is makkelijker gezegd dan gedaan en ik weet niet of ik er wel zo goed in ben. 'Misschien is de tijd er nog niet rijp voor en komt dat later pas, zoals bij zo veel schrijvers. Voor mij gold dat in ieder geval wel.’ ‘Eigenlijk hou ik heel erg van eenvoudige dingen, het huishouden, koken, tuinieren...’ Abrupt draaide ik me naar haar toe. ‘Ik ben niet zo ambitieus. Is dat erg?”