the capability she saw there to delight in mischief, in breaking the rules.

Stirring up trouble. Heedlessly throwing sparks. Mrs. Richardson seethed, and deep inside her, the hot speck of fury that had been carefully banked within her burst into flame.

You knew, from then on, that the world was a smaller place than you’d expected.

All that pain, all that guilt, those seven little ghosts – for Mrs. McCullough never forgot a single one – had, to her amazement, packed themselves into a box and whisked themselves away at the sight of baby Mirabelle: so concrete, so vivid, so inescapably present. Now, at the thought that Mirabelle might be taken as well, Mrs. McCullough realized

he thought to himself, though for the rest of the afternoon he found himself daydreaming back to his own teenage years in Hong Kong, sneaking into the botanical gardens with Betsy Choy, those dreamlike afternoons he had never told anyone about, and had not remembered to relive, for many years.

There were mimosas and an omelet station. There were caterers offering bite-sized quiches and poached eggs in puddles of velvety hollandaise.

charming and generous and always saying kind things, and then when she wanted something she was sure you couldn’t say no.

what a thing, to choose between hunger and darkness.

the fridge, a leaning tower of Pyrex baking dishes crimped in foil.