Harriet and Robert are not your playthings, your dolls, to be told what to do and to marry under the table at your bidding. They’re flesh and blood! And one day, you will bitterly regret your meddling.
He had gotten the spreading, intricate tattoo only months before, a little to irritate Declan, a little to see if it was really as bad as everyone said, and definitely so everyone who glimpsed the hooks of it had fair warning. It was full of things from his head, beaks and claws and flowers and vines stuffed into screaming mouths.
It took him a long time to fall asleep that night, his thoughts crowded with the burning Mitsubishi, Gansey holding the Molotov cocktail, the enigmatic language on the puzzle box, the dark bags beneath Adam’s eyes.
And when he fell asleep, he dreamt of the tattoo. Ordinarily, Ronan only saw bits and pieces of it; he had not seen the full design since he’d gotten it. But tonight he saw the tattoo itself, from behind, as if he was outside of his own body, as if it was apart from his body. It was more complicated than he remembered. The road to the Barns was threaded through it, and Chainsaw peered out from a thicket of thorns. Adam was in the dream, too; he traced the tangled pattern of the ink with his finger. He said, “Scio quid hoc est.” As he traced it farther and farther down on the bare skin of Ronan’s back, Ronan himself disappeared entirely, and the tattoo got smaller and smaller. It was a Celtic knot the size of a wafer, and then Adam, who had become Kavinsky, said, “Scio quid estis vos.” He put the tattoo in his mouth and swallowed it.
Ronan woke with a start, ashamed and euphoric. The euphoria wore off long before the shame did.
❝ The stars winked through the beech leaves. She’d read that new stars tended to form in pairs. Binary stars, orbiting in close proximity, only becoming single stars when their partner was smashed off them by another pair of wildly spinning new stars. If she pretended hard enough, she could see the multitude of pairs clinging to each other in the destructive and creative gravity of their constellations. Impressive. Maybe she was a little impressed. Not by pulling the plug on a dead boy ––– that seemed sad, nothing to brag about. But because she’d learned something about herself today, and she’d thought there was nothing left there to discover. The stars moved slowly above her, an array of possibilities, and for the first time in a long time, she felt them mirrored in her heart. ❞
– Women are biologically unsuited to driving. – Which part of our biology gets in the way, exactly? – Well, you’re too easily distracted. A bird flies across and you end up in the gutter. – I seem to be able to handle my Hispano-Suiza without any trouble.
Miss Fisher’s Murder Mysteries 2x07 - Blood At The Wheel