ABRAMS, Inc.

The Welsh say, “She is casting rain,” not “it is raining,” and in Pwyll’s day men still knew why. Rain and sun, crops and the wombs of beasts and women, all were ruled by that old, mysterious Goddess from whose own womb all things had come in the beginning. The wild places were Hers, and the wild things were Her children.

The glory of show business is that it gives the people what they want. The glory of art is that it gives us what we never knew we wanted.

‘But you couldn’t make me do it, Mr Architect,’ Trista whispered aloud. ‘You lost that game. I’m not your tool, and I never will be. I’m free and I’m myself, until my pieces fall into the gutter. And I’m not ready for that to happen just yet either.’

She had broken the taboo and spoken the sacred name. A shocked silence followed. Piers seemed to be having trouble breathing. Trista knew her words were harsh, but they had the bitter taste of truth. They needed to be spoken, and there was no gentle way to do that

riss could never believe that!’ exclaimed Piers aghast. ‘She knows we love her!’
‘Do you?’ Trista felt a pang as she saw her not-father blanch. ‘Or do you love the six-year-old Triss in your head, the one who never grows up, never looks at you differently and always needs you forever? She isn’t real. Your real daughter spends her life pretending to be her – it’s like a horrible game she has to play or she loses your love. Nobody is “your Triss” any more. There’s just a girl who play-acts all the time, and makes herself believe her own lies, and torments Pen out of misery and envy. She’s spoilt and spiteful and deceitful, and you have to promise that if I rescue her and bring her back, you will love her anyway, for the Triss she really is.’

Somehow the safety of another person, a smaller person, had been thrust into Trista’s hands. It frightened her. She wondered if mothers felt scared at having so much power over their children. Perhaps they did. Perhaps they wished there was somebody to tell them if they were doing things wrong

Yes, Mr Architect. It’s me.’

Something strange had happened to the anger in Trista’s chest. It was still there, roiling away, but now it was mixed with an odd warmth. It was the way that the Architect had called her ‘my little Cuckoo’. It was the unexpectedness of being told that she belonged to somebody.

. ‘Believe me, I do understand that. And let me tell you – from one monster to another – that just because somebody tells you you’re a monster, it doesn’t mean you are

You have nothing of your own, said the Grimmer. Everything you have is borrowed, and when it is paid back there will be nothing left. Even your time is borrowed, and it is running out. One day. One left…

‘Pen!’ Trista exclaimed, appalled. ‘You don’t mean that!’

There was a growled, snuffled response that might have been, ‘Yes, I do.’

To be loved, to be preferred… The very thought gave Trista a painful little stab of joy.