Keeper Of Enchanted Rooms Quotes

Beauty is just like a book. Some will not bother to look beyond the cover; others will find the entire tome utterly captivating.

Have you ever wondered,” he followed up without missing a beat, “if we’re all characters in another’s book? If all of our actions, whims, thoughts, and desires are being controlled by some omniscient author?

I talked to Mrs. Larkin about cow. I would like cow.

Hers was a story he didn’t want to end. But how many pages would she let him turn? What was her ending—their ending—going to be like?

Mr. Portendorfer: It would take a lifetime to read all of these books. Hulda: I suppose that depends on how fast of a reader you are compared to how long you intend to live.

Just because magic is rare does not make it unreal,

The coddled and content seldom told good stories.

Being able to talk aloud to someone who always agreed with you could do wonders for the soul.

He’d dug his graves for the loved ones torn away from him long ago, occasionally adding more soil to top them off.

In truth, the anxiety in waiting for something was often worse than the thing itself.

Being useful made her feel good about herself, regardless of all the nonsense and trepidation going on in her life.

I’ve been lonely for a long time. Sure, I’ve had friends, colleagues, so I’m not isolated. But I still feel it. It’s the deep, lasting kind of loneliness. The hollow kind that settles in your bones.

You are the air in my flotation device and the yeast in my bread.

Merritt frowned and moved in step with her. “You make it sound like you’re not attending.” She peeked at him over her glasses. “I told you I was visiting BIKER today.” “I thought that was after.” Hulda clicked her tongue. “Two birds with one stone, Mr. Fernsby. I hardly think you need me holding your hand while you inquire about your property.” Merritt grinned. “Mrs. Larkin, are you flirting with me?” The morbid shock that covered her face made him laugh out loud. “Offering to hold my hand in a public place—

Maybe everything in her past had gone wrong because God or the fates or whatever was out there had known it wasn’t yet time for it to go right.

nescience.

Chaos is disorder, but if something is already in chaos, then its disorder is order.

But the only time cities got quiet was during heavy snowfall.

tirrivee

determined yet again to make herself useful. There was nothing she was better at than making herself useful. Being useful made her feel good about herself, regardless of all the nonsense and trepidation going on in her life.

I am.” His voice was barely audible, but he knew the place heard it. “I’ve been lonely for a long time. Sure, I’ve had friends, colleagues, so I’m not isolated. But I still feel it. It’s the deep, lasting kind of loneliness. The hollow kind that settles in your bones.

One thing at a time, she reminded herself. Only worry about yourself. It was advice she had to inculcate often, as she frequently wished she could take control of others’ lives for a little while, if only to make the world a more organized place.

He caught her eye and smiled, which made her stupid organs do stupid things that she ignored.

If she feigned confidence long enough, she’d embody it. Eventually.

Like she was trying to shove a lamb shank into a sausage casing.

He smelled masculine, with a hint of cloves and orange twigs from that cologne of his, mixed with freshly chopped wood. She was entranced by it,

She thought for the dozenth time of Mr. Fernsby’s arm snug around her waist, their bodies pressed close enough for her to smell the petitgrain and ink that seemed to emanate from his skin.

exchange

I am.” His voice was barely audible, but he knew the place heard it. “I’ve been lonely for a long time. Sure, I’ve had friends, colleagues, so I’m not isolated. But I still feel it. It’s the deep, lasting kind

of loneliness. The hollow kind that settles in your bones.

But Hulda was like picking up a book with no description, fanfare, or title and discovering it got better and

There were letters in the beginning, all from him—the start of his writing career, in a melancholy sort of way, but melancholy things

always made for great fiction. The coddled and content seldom told good stories

Boston Institute for the Keeping of Enchanted Rooms, or BIKER for short.

better with each page turned. He wanted to know how her story would read. He wanted to reach the denouement, the end. And he wanted to see if she had a sequel.

Have you ever wondered,” he followed up without missing a beat, “if we’re

all characters in another’s book? If all of our actions, whims, thoughts, and desires are being controlled by some omniscient author?

Servitude is the best way for the unfortunate to rise in their station and procure good wages for themselves and their families.

Returning the watch, he closed the distance between them by two paces. Hulda’s heartbeat echoed in her ears. “Did you . . . like the book?” She pressed her thumb into her palm. “I admit I haven’t finished it yet.” “Oh?” “I was rather distracted by a scene that did not fit the narrative in the slightest.

Merritt glanced down and pinched the watch chain between his fingers. “And what did you think of it?” “Competence is a very apt name. I would have preferred it over Hulda, as a child.” He met her eyes again. “Truly?” She tilted her head to one side. “It would have given me something to aspire to.

But Hulda was like picking up a book with no description, fanfare, or title and discovering it got better and better with each page turned. He wanted to know how her story would read. He wanted to reach the denouement, the end. And he wanted to see if she had a sequel.

She smelled like rosewater and rosemary . . . and wore roses on her dress. He wondered if she realized what a lovely metaphor she presented.

Truth was, Merritt was in the real meat of the Hulda story now, and he didn’t want to stop reading. Hers

was a story he didn’t want to end. But how many pages would she let him turn? What was her ending—their ending—going to be like?

Approaching the door, heavy tool bag hanging off her shoulder, she took up the brass knocker and rapped four times. Loudly. Hulda preferred not to repeat herself. For a moment, all was silent. Then she heard the sound of something thick crashing onto the floor—several somethings—followed by a brief shriek.

Some people prefer women who look like their mothers, and some prefer women who look like their fathers.

Propping his elbows on his knees, he dropped his head into his palms. Focused on his breathing. In, out. In, out. He sat like that for a long time, trying to tamp down the anger and the hurt. Just when he thought it was finally done, that he was finally cured, it came bubbling up again. Something always brought it up, and he hated it, because it never hurt any less, even so many years later.

Servitude is the best way for the unfortunate to rise in their station and procure good wages for themselves and their families.” Merritt chucked the sandwich cloth at the dirt. “You talk like a politician.” “You seem to enjoy pointing out my idiosyncrasies.

Hulda was like picking up a book with no description, fanfare, or title and discovering it got better and better with each page turned.

help him make his point. “It was kind of cute, when I thought I was dealing with a half-sentient kitchen or armoire. It is utterly horrid that there is an actual walking spirit from the grave floating around, watching me dress, breathing down my neck, and dropping me into pits!

Her body would never know the touch of a man or the weight of a child. She was an augurist, after all. Her talent lay in knowing the future.

was fascinating that a person could just sit down and write an entire novel. That all of these words, and the pictures they painted, had only existed inside his head before he put them to paper. That he could create something from nothing.

Beauty is just like a book. Some will not bother to look beyond the cover; others will find the entire tome utterly captivating

Melancholy things always made for great fiction. The coddled and content seldom told good stories.

contumelious

Regret lightened the words and carried them like candle smoke.

After lunch, they all went through to the study. Sunshine was desperate to show Freddy Anthony’s museum of missing things, and Laura was toying with the idea of asking if he had any bright ideas about returning them to their rightful owners. Each time she came into the study it seemed to Laura that the room was filling up; less space, more things. And she felt smaller; shrinking, sinking. The shelves seemed to groan, threatening collapse, and the drawers creak, dovetails about to fly open and burst. She feared she would be buried under an avalanche of lost property. For Sunshine it was a treasure trove. She stroked and held and hugged the things, talking softly to herself – or perhaps to the things themselves – and reading their labels with obvious enchantment. Freddy was appropriately astonished

but melancholy things always made for great fiction. The coddled and content seldom told good stories.