Frances Hardinge

Somehow the safety of another person, a smaller person, had been thrust into Trista’s hands. It frightened her. She wondered if mothers felt scared at having so much power over their children. Perhaps they did. Perhaps they wished there was somebody to tell them if they were doing things wrong

Yes, Mr Architect. It’s me.’

Something strange had happened to the anger in Trista’s chest. It was still there, roiling away, but now it was mixed with an odd warmth. It was the way that the Architect had called her ‘my little Cuckoo’. It was the unexpectedness of being told that she belonged to somebody.

. ‘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

You have nothing of your own, said the Grimmer. Everything you have is borrowed, and when it is paid back there will be nothing left. Even your time is borrowed, and it is running out. One day. One left…

‘Pen!’ Trista exclaimed, appalled. ‘You don’t mean that!’

There was a growled, snuffled response that might have been, ‘Yes, I do.’

To be loved, to be preferred… The very thought gave Trista a painful little stab of joy.

.’ She gave Pen another squeeze. ‘Life isn’t that simple. People aren’t that simple. You can’t cut them into slices like a cake, then throw away the bits you don’t like.

Maybe later I’ll end up choosing sides in the big fight, but saving people comes first. I have to free Sebastian’s soul and let it escape from the snows. And I have to save my other self.

I have to save Triss.

For Triss’s own sake, and for Piers’s and Celeste’s sake. For Violet’s sake, so she doesn’t get sent to prison for murder. For Pen’s sake too, or she’ll grow up knowing she caused her own sister’s death. And for my sake, so that – whatever happens – my life will have mattered

‘Listen, please!’ Once again she was the miserable child-monster begging, cobweb tears clouding her eyes. ‘I’m on your side! I’m trying to save Triss too! If you only listen, we can defeat the Architect together!’

‘And that, I fear, is your problem,’ sighed the Architect. ‘For the world, my friend, is not clear. It is cloudy as a blood pudding. So if you see it crystal clear, there is something wrong with your eyes. Or perhaps you do not use your eyes.

Everything she had was borrowed, just as the Grimmer had said in her dream. She was litter and leavings, not a person in her own right.

‘But I am a person!’ she wailed, the room throwing back derisive echoes. ‘I’m real! I am! I’ve got a name!’