Frances Hardinge

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