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You're nobody's rainbow.

You're nobody's princess.

You're nobody's doorway but your own, and the only one who gets to tell you how your story ends is you.

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None of this is real, my dear. Not this house, not this conversation, not those shoes you're wearing--which are several years out of style if you're trying to reacclimatize yourself to the ways of your peers, and are not proper mourning shoes if you're trying to hold fast to your recent past--and not either one of us. 'Real' is a four-letter-word, and I'll thank you to use it as little as possible while you live under my roof.

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"The Skeleton Girl is real, and she isn't dead, and she was never alive the way that people are here."

"Skeleton people generally aren't," said Jack, setting her cocoa aside. "If they were, I would expect them to die instantly, due to their lack of functional respiration or circulatory systems. The lack of tendons alone--"

"You must me a lot of fun at parties," said Christopher.

Jack smirked. "It depends on the kind of party. If there are shovels involved, I'm the life, death, and resurrection of the place."

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