Death could not find her here. Surely the monster would get lost in these woods, trapped in the hollow of an oak tree or in the muck at the bottom of Lover’s Lake. Surely it would like it better in the cold and the dark than in her mind, which is as bright and warm right now as a midsummer rainbow. Rumor had it that a Skylark fell through the ice once upon a time; the monster could tinker with the dashboard clock and inflict that awful ticking on the walleyes, bass, and leeches instead of her.
Chrissy wants it to be true, but it feels like a fragile fantasy. The Tigers won’t stop reminding her how easy it is to trespass.
from chapter 25 of three-spotted ladybug
The mayor’s house was the grandest on District 12’s town square, a relic of the age when the mountains were ruled by barons. It had been altered in the intervening centuries, half-burnt and then rebuilt. Compared to the merchants’ houses, which had spalling brick, flat roofs missing shingles, and sagging awnings, the mayor’s house hardly showed its wear. It was set apart from the others by a circle of manicured grass and artfully overflowing flowerbeds, enclosed by a row of trees and a wrought iron fence with spearpoint finials.
From outside the gate, the chimney appeared on the verge of smoking; in truth, it was purely ornamental since modern mortar was too thin to withstand high heat. At a distance each of the three stories blended perfectly, but up close, the second floor was obviously patched, paler than the rest and already warping. The old growth maples had been decimated by logging, leaving only the new growth for repairs, and crown wood was quick to rot.
from chapter 1 of mute swans
