Time passes. Even when it seems impossible. Even when each tick of the second hand aches like the pulse of… — Stephenie Meyer

"You try very hard to make up for something that was never your fault. [...] You didn't choose this kind of life, and yet you have to work so hard to be good."

"I don't know that I'm making up for anything," he disagreed lightly. "Like everything in life, I just had to decide what to do with what I was given."

I felt the smooth wooden floor beneath my knees, and then the palms of my hands, and then it was pressed against the skin of my cheek. I hoped that I was fainting, but, to my disappointment, I didn't lose consciousness. The waves of pain that had only lapped at me before now reared high up and washed over my head, pulling me under.

I did not resurface.

Tonight the sky was utterly black. Perhaps there was no moon tonight — a lunar eclipse, a new moon.

A new moon. I shivered, though I wasn't cold.