Frances Hardinge Quotes

Just between you and me,' Mosca whispered, 'radicalism is all about walkin' on the grass.

All these years I've been ... I'm ... ' He still seemed to be choking. 'I'm ... an orphan. I'm ... I'm alone. I'm ... I'm ... I'm ... free.' He pushed himself up on one elbow, staring at his hands as if for the first time they had become his own. 'I can ... I can do anything. I can leave Jealousy! I can break my spectacles and run off barefoot to become a ... a ... cobbler! I can ... I can marry my housekeeper! Do I have a housekeeper? I never had time to notice! But now I can get a housekeeper! And marry her!

Hate has its uses, but it will serve you ill if you wear it so openly.

All her life, Neverfell had suffered the dull, embarrassed ache of the knowledge that she was always the maddest person in the room. Funnily enough, the realization that this was probably no longer the case did not make her feel better at all.

Follow that coffeehouse.

I want my chirfugging goose back!

Where is your sense of patriotism?
I keep it hid away safe, along with my sense of trust, Mr. Clent. I don't use 'em much in case they get scratched.

People's personalities took up space, he sometimes thought. When they were trapped in a house or a job or a school together, they rubbed up against each other, squeaked like balloons, and made sparks. Ryan's parents both had large, gleaming, hot-air-balloon personalities. Sometimes it was hard to fit them into the same house, and Ryan had learned the art of suddenly making himself take up less space, demand less, so that his parents were not chafing against each other as much.

Zeal was like gas, most dangerous when you could not see it. The wrong spark could light it at any time.

Faith had always told herself that she was not like other ladies. But neither, it seemed, were other ladies.

I hate you!" Pen's would-be shout was muffled by breathlessness, and not-Triss realized that the younger girl was sobbing with exhaustion and rage. "I hate you! You stupid . . . Why did you have to happen? I never asked for a stupid . . . stupid . . . toothy . . . stupid . . . monster thing.

Mosca felt filled with panic. She was an arsonist, runaway, thief, spy and murderer's accomplice, and here she was of her own free will taking step after weak-kneed step towards the prison. She turned a final corner, and now she could see the prison waiting to pounce on her, crouched behind the watch house like a panther behind a mound. The prison – the 'louse house', the 'tribulation', the 'stone jug', the 'naskin'. It would put out a great paw to pin her, and she would never escape it again.

There was an invisible necklace of nows, stretching out in front of her along the crazy, twisting road, each bead a golden second.

She was not undamaged, however, and she knew it. No food or drink had passed her lips, but she had drunk deep of the Truth, and now it could not be flushed out of her system with bitter cordials, or washed from her skin, or picked out of her hair.

Humans are strange, adaptable animals, and eventually get used to anything, even the impossible or unbearable. ... Terror is tiring, and difficult to keep up indefinitely, so sooner or later it must be replaced with something more practical.

Habits, places and faces grew into you over time, like tree roots burrowing into stone work.

This was the hardest part. It was easier to be the witch, the harpy. Being human was dangerous.

My mother is not evil, Faith reminded herself. She is just a perfectly sensible snake, protecting her eggs and making her way in the world as best she can.

It's as if they're wearing a lie, but it doesn't fit them.' Trista tried to straighten her thoughts. 'They haven't buttoned it the right way, so it's baggy in some places and coming away in others.

Who had they been, all these mothers and sisters and wives? What were they now? Moons, blank and faceless, gleaming with borrowed light, each spinning loyally around a bigger sphere.
'Invisible,' said Faith under her breath. Women and girls were so often unseen, forgotten, afterthoughts. Faith herself had used it to good effect, hiding in plain sight and living a double life. But she had been blinded by exactly the same invisibility-of-the-mind, and was only just realizing it.

The world is like a broken wrist that healed the wrong way, and will never be the same again.

Do you know why a vandal is worse than a thief?' asked the man on the right, in a soft growl. 'A thief steals a treasure from its owner. A vandal steals it from the world.

It is a very terrible thing to be far smaller than one's rage.

Somehow the sting of guilt was always more acute when there was a risk that she might get caught.

My business in the Capital is concluded,' Tamarind explained. 'Kindly send a letter to Mr Kohlrabi's lodgings, telling him that I require his presence as soon as he is back in the city, then bring me a dish of tea, the latest issue of the Gazette and a bag of dead cats.

Perhaps illnesses could be left behind, just like small, badly concealed china corpses.

It is easy to love power, because power tells you it is majesty and beauty and greatness.

But in the name of all that is holy, Mosca, of all the people you could have taken up with, why Eponymous Clent?" murmured Kohlrabi.
Because I'd been hording words for years, buying them from peddlers and carving them secretly on bits of bark so I wouldn't forget them, and then he turned up using words like "epiphany" and "amaranth." Because I heard him talking in the marketplace, laying out sentences like a merchant rolling out rich silks. Because he made words and ideas dance like flames and something that was damp and dying came alive in my mind, the way it hadn't since they burned my father's books. Because he walked into Chough with stories from exciting places tangled around him like maypole streamers ... "
Mosca shrugged.
"He's got a way with words.

She was gauging him, trying to work out what cards he had up his sleeve. For now he might be able to keep her off balance by smiling meaningfully and dropping hints, delaying the moment in which she realized that she held all the cards, and that his well-brushed sleeves held nothing but his arms.

You're a peach full of poison, you know that? Mosca snapped back, but could not quite keep a hint of admiration from her tone.

Her moment came. Nobody was looking. She sidled quickly across the deck and lost herself among the crates that clustered at the base of the boat's shuddering, discoloured funnel. The air tasted of salt and guilt, and she felt alive.

It was hopeless. She was flawless. She was a sunbeam. Mosca gave up and got on with hating her.

Oh, Neverfell, you're just not made for undercover work. You can't lie, my dear, and I can. Leave Madame Appeline and the Doldrums to me. Stay here and keep your head down.

Saracen had finished his barley and was happily chewing at the corner of a sheet that had been spread across a hedge to dry. He had once discovered a tablecloth, and ever since had been optimistic about the effects of dragging cloths off the top of things.

How does it feel, whispered Faith, to come back to your memories and find yourself missing and a dead person in your place?

The ubiquitous palace servants opened the door for Neverfell as she approached, and Zouelle was suddenly stung by the thought of the guards perhaps calling Neverfell 'my lady' the same way they had addressed her. Immediately the honour of that title cheapened in her mind, like a piece of tinsel that had adorned the neck of a puppy or piglet.

True stories seldom have endings.
I don't want a happy ending, I want more story.

This was thieves' cant. Mosca was a lover of words, and she had a sneaking liking for the grimy panache of cant, and those who wore it like a ragged red cloak.

His persistence allowed us to play a game, and pretend that everything can stay as it is now forever. It cannot. The events of this day have shown us what happens when you try to keep things from changing. Sooner or later the sleeplessness catches up with you, the paranoia about threats devours you and your mind betrays you even if your body does not.

That," he whispered, "is unthinkable." In Mosca's experience, such statements generally meant that a thing was perfectly thinkable, but that the speaker did not want to think it.

I don't know. How can you know? I…I'm a monster. When I'm hungry, I might do anything."
"Oh no, of course I couldn't possibly understand you." Violet's shadowed face seemed to be wearing a grim and serious smile. "I know, you woke up one day and found out that you couldn't be the person you remembered being, the little girl everybody expected you to be. You just weren't her any more, and there was nothing you could do about it. So your family decided you were a monster and turned on you." Violet sighed, staring out into the darkness.

"Believe me, I do understand that. And let me tell you - from one monster to another - that just because somebody tells you you're a monster, it doesn't mean you are.

"just now you told me what you did because you want me to stop you from eating Pen. If you were a real monster, you wouldn't have done that, would you?"

Trista's eyes stung, and she wiped strands of cobweb away with her sleeve.

"Idiot," added Violet, for good measure.

Revenge is a dish best served unexpectedly and from a distance - like a thrown trifle.

Sometimes she felt she would like to engulf him like a trap-lantern, and never share him with anyone or anything else again, not even the light. Even his obsession with ruling Caverna pained her, as if the city were a woman, and a rival.

Desperation is a millstone. It wears away at the very soul, grinding away pity, kindness, humanity and courage. But sometimes it whets the mind to a sharpened point and creates moments of true brilliance. And standing there, nose tickled by the dusty hide of the stuffed deer head, such a moment visited Mosca Mye.

Even when she slept, her anxieties did not.

each lady quietly relaxed and became more real, expanding into the space left by the men. Without visibly changing, they unfolded, like flowers, or knives. Faith

Gravelip, a young, slight footman with a pocked nose and large ears, obediently gave a smile like toothache. He seemed less than delighted to have outpaced his friends in the ugliness race.

Over this year, familiarity had done its usual work, picking off the gilded paint one scratch at a time.

Once again Toll-by-Night had burst out of its captivity, like a monstrous jack from an innocent-looking box. And this time Mosca was a part of it.

The world is full of liars of different humours.

We always find it difficult to forgive our heroes for being human.

Nobody was to be trusted. The plan that had ensnared her had been the brainchild of her protector, Maxim Childersin.

Have you ever seen an anthill?" he said at last. "A machine of tiny marchers. Too much motion, you cannot make out the aims in it. But take something away from that anthill – a stone, a leaf, a dead caterpillar – and the ants scurry. You see which ones you have sabotaged, which ones are disturbed and scuttling to prop something in its place. That is what I do. That is kleptomancy. Divination by theft. Find something that is important, something on which you suspect many plans rely, and remove it. Then sit and watch. That's why stealing you will help, even if you know nothing. Right now, the people who want to use you and the people who want you dead will be in a race to find you before the other does. People in a hurry often show their hand by mistake.

After the engine had faded away she did not dismount, but sat for a few minutes with her face in her hands, almost as if she was praying. If it was a prayer she was muttering, however, it was one full of all the swear words that Not-Triss had ever heard, and quite a few she had not.

I mean...if I told people what to believe, they'd stop thinking. And then they'd be easier to lie to. And...what if I was wrong?'

'So...if you may not decide what is true, and the men of letters may not, who may?'

'Nobody. Everybody.' Mosca looked up at the windows where the jubilant people of Mandelion swung their bells. 'Clamouring Hour – that's the only way. Everybody able to stand up and shout what they think, all at once. An' not just the men of letters, an' the lords in their full-bottomed wigs, but the streetsellers an' the porters an' the bakers. An' not just the clever men, but the muddle-headed, and the madmen, and the criminals, an' the children in their infant gowns, an' the really, really stupid. All of 'em. Even the wicked, Mr Clent. Even the Birdcatchers.

It is terribly bad form to admit to being terrified for one's life, but nobody in their right mind would go to a Court banquet without making preparations. One must have the right costume, the right Faces, and at least eighty-two ways of avoiding assassination.

Clent's expression had set up camp somewhere between amusement and pain. "Sometimes I forget that your small size is the result of youth, not pickling. You are... young, Mosca.

"To be young is to be powerless, but to have delusions of power. To believe that one can really change things, make the world better and simpler in good and simple ways. To grow old is to realize that nobody is ever good, nothing is ever simple. That truth is cruel at first, but finally comforting."

"But...," Mosca broke in, then halted. Clent was right- she knew that he was. And yet her bones screamed that he was also wrong, utterly wrong. "But sometimes things /are/ simple. Just now and then. Just like now and then people /are/ good."

"Yes." Clent gave a deep sigh. "Yes, I know. Innocent people force one to remember that. For you see, there is a cruelty in all innocence."

Mosca remained silent for a few moments, daunted by the colossal sadness in his voice. "I'll never understand you, Mr. Clent," she said at last.

"Mosca," he replied simply, "I truly hope you never do.

Why? How had this otherwise sensible woman who had only met Beamabeth as a screaming purple blob fallen under her spell? Or had Beamabeth slipped immaculate into the world, petal-cheeked and smiling amidst gleaming golden curls?

This is a battlefield, Faith! Women find themselves on battlefields, just as men do. We are given no weapons, and cannot be seen to fight. But fight we must, or perish.

No, nobody would ever call Neverfell 'my lady'. She was still a 'miss' all the way – misunderstanding, making mistakes, getting into misadventures.

She wanted there to be more blood and screeching. She wanted each death to detonate before her like a little black firework. She wanted it to matter. There was bellowing all around her, but the killing itself was soft and quiet and matter of fact. Life to death, life to death, with no more drama than turning over a counterpane.

I want to be a bad example,' she said. 'I see.' Myrtle stirred herself, ready to walk to the prow. 'Well, my dear, I think you have made an excellent start.

She could no longer understand the Faith from the night of the ratting, who had believed that the world was only teeth and hunger, nothing but killing and dead bones in the dust. Hunger cannot explain why I love the blue of this sky, she thought.

For a second, she could almost see Caverna as the Kleptomancer did, a murky, monstrous beauty, smiling her fine-fanged smile as she prepared to stretch and grow, shaking out her tunnel-tresses as they became longer and longer. Perhaps Caverna had already known that such an opportunity was open to her. Neverfell imagined her discarding the Grand Steward like a worn-out toy, and reaching for a new favourite, a man who could extend her empire and bring her new strength ... Maxim Childersin.

You know, that's a really beautiful bow," Neverfell interrupted suddenly. "Did you make it?"
"Found it, mended it, modified it," was the curt reply.

I swam across the torrent of my madness, and pulled myself upon the shore of a new and better sanity.

I lied to you and it was easy, because you believe everybody means what they say. Everyone's lying to you, Neverfell. Everyone. And you can't tell, because you're just not very bright when it comes to people. Brighten up fast, or you're done for.

The Devil has no better friend than an empty belly.

I am content to be hated, and bloody, and outnumbered. For in this sickened world, it is better to believe in something too fiercely than to believe in nothing."
Words, words, wonderful words. But lies too.
"No, it isn't!" shouted Mosca the Housefly, Quillam Mye's daughter. "Not if what you're believin' isn't blinkin' well True! You shouldn't just go believin' things for no reason, pertickly if you got a sword in your hand! Sacred just means something you're not meant to think about properly, an' you should never stop thinking! Show me something I can kick, and hit with rocks, and set fire to, and leave out in the rain, and think about, and if it's still standing after all that then maybe, just maybe, I'll start to believe in it, but not till then. An' if all we're left with is muck and wickedness and no gods, then we'd better face it and get used to it because it's better than a lie.

You will find out who you are when your choices test you. In the end, we are what we do and what we allow to be done.

There was too much to feel strongly about, she was stretched too thin, so she could not quite feel anything about anything.

Large people tend to have large heads. Men are no cleverer than we are, Miss Sunderly. Just taller.

Enquirer," Neverfell said slowly, "do you really think I would have walked into this court if I didn't have a way of getting out again?"

"What? What way?"

"I don't know." Neverfell gave Enquirer Treble an enormous smile, as bright and mad as a sun souffé. "Do you like surprises, Enquirer? I do. Just as well, really."

It is fair to say that what happened after that was a surprise to everybody in the courtroom, including Neverfell. Somewhere high above in the shadowy, stalagmite-fanged ceiling, a trapdoor flipped open, revealing a darkened hatch. From this darkness a coil of wire whispered down, unravelling and unravelling as it fell, until the bottom end brushed the dais on which Neverfell stood. Then with a singing, metallic whine, a stocky figure in a gleaming metal suit and goggled mask dropped out of the trap and slid down the wire, to land with a jolt beside Neverfell.

"Seize . . ." began Treble. A metal-scaled arm was thrown round Neverfell's middle. An armoured hand flicked two belt levers.

". . . that . . ." With a lurch, Neverfell was dragged aloft as the armoured figure whizzed back up the wire, carrying her with it, the whine of the mechanism rising to a screech. The dais dropped away, and she was staring down at a receding sea of frozen, upturned faces.

". . . girl!" finished the Enquirer in a deafening yell as both soaring figures disappeared upward through the hatch. The court vanished from Nev

Then why couldn't Father see that?" not-Triss felt despair and hurt welling up inside her again, and it was all she could do to stop her teeth from sharpening. "Why couldn't Mother see it?"
"Because they're stupid," growled Pen, rubbing at her nose with her sleeve. "They can't tell when real Triss is fake-crying, so of course they can't tell when fake Triss is real-crying.

I'm a monster too. And they probably can't help it either.

At one o'clock, the ever-logical Right-Eye Grand Steward woke up to discover that during his sleep his left-eyed counterpart had executed three of his advisors for treason, ordered the creation of a new carp pool and banned limericks. Worse still, no progress had been made in tracking down the Kleptomancer, and of the two people believed to be his accomplices, both had been released from prison and one had been appointed food taster. Right-Eye was not amused. He had known for centuries that he could trust nobody but himself. Now he was seriously starting to wonder about himself.

What a world this is, he thought. Children put us to shame with their pluck, and are shot in the back for it.

I think that when Lady Tamarind looks at you, she feels as the cathedral might if it suddenly remembered that once it had been a grim little church facing down musket fire and a cruel sea wind.

If nothing is sacred, then we are all left to crawl through the mud, and there is no meaning to anything.

She's got us, she's got us all. Caverna. She doesn't want to let us go. Do you know what she's like? A huge trap-lantern with us inside her, digesting us really, really slowly, and not wanting to let any of us go. Maybe that's the worst kind of prison – not knowing you're in a prison. Because then you don't fight to get out.

Wishes are thorns, he told himself sharply. They do us no good, just stick into our skin and hurt us.

Yes, ma'am, I like raspberry cake, only I like it better with no poison or scorpions in it.

I understand Neverfell, you see. For Neverfell, it is as if other people are part of her. When she believes they are in pain, it hurts her, like a wound in a pretend limb. So right now she is in pain for all the people she saw in the Undercity.

Uncle Miles was napping in his seat, blithely and easily as a puppy on a rug.

Lies like knives, lies like poultices. The tiger's stripe, the fawn's dusky dapple. And everywhere, everywhere, the lie that people told themselves. Dreams like cut flowers, with no nourishing root. Will-o'-the-wisp lights to make them feel less alone in the dark. Hollow resolutions and empty excuses.

Yes, I know,' she said in answer to the unasked, for there was no time for explanations. 'Yes. My face is spoilt.'

Grandible's jowl wobbled and creased. Then, for the first time that Neverfell could remember, he changed to a Face she had never seen before, a frown more ferocious and alarming than either of the others.

'Who the shambles told you that?' he barked. 'Spoilt? I'll spoil them.' He took hold of her chin and examined her. 'A bit sadder, maybe. A bit wiser. But nothing rotten. You're just growing yourself a rind at last. Still a good cheese.

I can't think straight. But why am I trying to do that anyway? Everybody else thinks straight. That's why nobody expects me to think zigzag-hop.

I did not see your mother at the funeral,' she said, following the thought. 'She stopped coming to them after her own,' Paul answered simply.

Quiet people often have a weather sense that loud people lack. They feel the wind-changes of conversations, and shiver in the chill of unspoken resentments.

Her face was upside down, but he could still make out her expression, and it filled him with a pang of curiosity. It was so long since he had seen such an expression that it took a while for him to recognize it as pity. Yes, it was true pity, without superiority or disdain. Just pain felt for pain. How strange it looked!

Mosca felt something enormous swell within the knotted stomach that she hid behind her fists. It seemed it must surge out of her like a wild, black wave, sweeping away stalls and strollers alike and biting the plaster from the walls.

I got all my limbs," Mosca answered quickly. "I been knocked and scraped and chased about but my heart's still beating inside my hide.

Thank you," she whispered. "I promise I will not interfere in Court business again."
"Oh yes, you will."
Zouelle looked up to see her uncle regarding her with a sad little smile.
"You decided that you were ready to start meddling in the great game. I really hope you were right, Zouelle, because once you start playing it you can never leave. You are in the game now, my dear. There is no going back.

One of the two of us, thought Mosca, is in a lot of trouble right now. I wonder which of us it is? She isn't turning pale or plucking at her handkerchief. Oh draggles, I think it's me.

Grab their lines! Stop that coffeehouse!" someone was shouting. "There are fugitives and cell-breakers aboard!

It was a joke, but centuries of distrust and fear lay behind it. Soon somebody would say something that was sharper and harder, but it would still be a joke. And then there would be a remark like a punch in the gut, but made as a joke. And then they would detain her if she tried to leave, and nobody would stop them because it was all only a joke...

Just for a moment Neverfell felt as if there were an invisible wire pulled to razor tautness between her and the other girl, humming tension into the room. If she blundered towards it, it might snap or cut her, and yet she half wished it would, so that she knew where it was.

Silence itself could be used as deftly and cruelly as a kire

Magic was not an answer; it was an excuse to avoid looking for one.

Until yesterday Mosca had been trapped between two rivers, desperate to get out before winter arrived. Toll had looked like her only means of escape. Now, however, she wondered if she had traded one prison for another, a smaller prison with high walls. If she was not out of it before her allotted time as a visitor ended, then the mysterious night town with its twilight cacophony would claim her.