“She thought of her hand in his, of gripping his worn fingers with her small ones. She thought of an old dead woman in a rocking chair, because her daughter couldn't bear to leave. She thought of the Otherking, leaving his home because he could not stay. And she thought of a mother, holding her dead child and the broken cauldron of rebrith. Her hand tightened araound the broken spoon and she let the jagged waves of grief wash over her.”
Book:The Bone Houses