Before— for years— she had let her mind close seamlessly, like an egg, around this wrong and other wrongs. They happened every day. It was life. But not her life.
Hers, an inner voice— sinister, upsetting— had sometimes disagreed.
Not hers.
Hers.
Kestrel could say that she’d learned that one’s life is also the lives of others. A wrong is not an egg, separate unto itself and sealed. She could say that she understood the wrong in ignoring a wrong. She could say this, but the truth was that she should have learned it long before.

BOOKS READ IN 2016 // the winner’s kiss, marie rutkoski