“I think,” she said, softer than light, “I think that one morning, the Papess woke in her tower, and her blankets were so warm, and the sun was so golden, she could not bear it. I think she woke, and dressed, and washed her face in cold water, and rubbed her shaven head. I think she walked among her sisters, and for the first time saw that they were so beautiful, and she loved them. I think she woke up one morning of all her mornings, and found that her heart was white as a silkworm, and the sun was clear as glass on her brow, and she believed then that she could live, and hold peace in her hand like a pearl.”

Tears slipped warm and grateful down Dinarzad’s lovely face, her lips trembled, and she folded her arms around the girl like a mother, like a sister, and kissed her frozen hair. She let her go, and drew down her yellow veil, and returned to the dais – but every so often, she glanced back over her shoulder, into the dark and the branches, into the Garden.

In the Cities of Coin and Spice, Catherynne M. Valente

"Tell me, my brother, tell me a story. Tell me a tale in which a woman is wed, and her husband is kind to her and no cold stranger, and the other wives love her as they would a sister. Tell me a tale in which a woman is wed and her children are beautiful and whole, and live a long while, and her sister-wives teach her to make bread in the fashion of their country. Tell me a tale where she wakes one morning and finds that her heart is white as a silkworm, and the sun is golden on the sill, and she then believes that she can live, and hold peace in her hand like a pearl. Tell me a tale in which a woman is wed, and she is happy."

—In the Cities of Coin and Spice, Catherynne M. Valente

"Did you never wonder why the old books are so full of dragons chasing after maidens? The serpents think the girls are orphans, and long to get them away in a lair so that they may grow up strong and tall."

—In the Cities of Coin and Spice, Catherynne M. Valente

"On maps they always mark us, the hoops of our blue tails humping out of the sea, demarcating the places where you must not go. But who will tell us? The Lamia were born in the beginning of the dark of the world, when there was nothing but a great black sea. Some will say there was always green land, just as there was always black sea, but these are lies of the landlocked, and we who breathe it know that the sea is greater than the land, ever and always, and cannot have been anything but the primeval blood of the world. The Lamia are old, older than salt. Our three breasts are called morning, evening, and night, and we encompass the heavens in our coils."

—In the Cities of Coin and Spice, Catherynne M. Valente

"

Consider this: if a unicorn is innocent, if she is the core and pivot of all possible purity, why should she seek it out? Why should she care if some other creature is innocent, if she herself runneth over with virtue? Why should she, time and time again, though she knows better – she must know! – be lured from the deep and shadowy greenwood by the simple presence of a girl in a white dress? Ridiculous. We want it because we have no idea what it is, except that we know its smell, its weight, its outline against a gray sky. We want it because it is new. We go toward it hoping that we can touch it, that we can understand it, that we may become innocent ourselves. You might chase down a cooling cake, but not if your belly is full. So it is.

The science of innocence is complex and technical – I shall not worry your little ears with such talk. Suffice to say that the hymen is irrelevant, as irrelevant to us as trousers. The word innocent means without harm – did you know? Your mother ought to have taught you what a dictionary was. There is some debate, when unicorns gather, as to what, exactly, the definition ought to be: one who has not been harmed, or one who has done no harm. The smell is different, of course, and everyone has their tastes. I have always held that those who do not harm are the most rarefied creatures – which is why we draw back in such horror when the huntsmen come. Suddenly the dove who opened its wings to us is a dove no longer, but a thing which has caused harm, great harm, which has brought arrows and knives, and smells like burning crusts, scorched flour.

"

—In the Cities of Coin and Spice, Catherynne M. Valente

"I have heard that unicorns are pale and perfect, all white and silver like a bride’s veil – those are silly tales, told by sillier uncles and grandfathers. They are dark, dark as racehorses, brown and jet, with the tails of lions, and a boar’s cloven hooves. They have little black beards that hang from their chins like unchewed grass, and their horns are not pearl and gold, but twisted bone, the stuff of antlers, twisted round in yellow and red and black."

—In the Cities of Coin and Spice, Catherynne M. Valente

"

I once had a golden ball, you see. Am I telling this tale poorly? Would a grown woman tell it better? My mother knew how to tell a tale properly. Perhaps she would have mentioned the ball in the beginning. Perhaps she would not have shown her tail so soon. Perhaps a good child would not admit that she owned such a thing as a golden ball – it has never done a girl any good to have one, in all the history of the world. But I am not a grown woman, and I loved my ball.

My sister was not given one, nor my cousins. What you must understand about a golden ball is that by giving one over into eager hands, parents acknowledge a certain wickedness in their children that must be occupied by something other than flesh or sweets. A mother does not give such a gift to the daughter she bathes in milk and perfumes in asters and daisies. She gives it to the scraggle-haired mud-kneed child who plays by herself at the side of the old well. It will keep her from young men and candies that glitter like fluttering eyelashes, and if she or it or both together should tip over the side of the well, as has been known to happen from time to time, well, at least no daisy was wasted on her.

I once had a golden ball, you see.

"

—In the Cities of Coin and Spice, Catherynne M. Valente

"Did you know that a city can die as easily as a person? It is true, I promise you. It dies in the same sad, lonely ways that people do: a knife in the governor’s heart, a quick poisoning of rivers. And there are cancers that begin slowly, a pinprick in a bookseller’s shop in a dust-clouded alley, a lump in a rainspout splashed with yellow leaves. Who would ever notice such a little thing tucked away like that, in a city of pillars and plums and plumes? Or it can become food, as all things inevitably are. It can be devoured, torn limb from street – it can be swallowed. By larger cities, by armies, by citizens too hungry for meager meat of lamps and botanical gardens and commemorative war statues."

—In the Cities of Coin and Spice, Catherynne M. Valente

"I leaned out of the window very suddenly and kissed the Selkie-boy right on this pale lips - I don’t know why I did it, but the moonlight was so bright, and he seemed suddenly ever so much more lovely than the skin. Our lips met over the windowsill and his mouth was so cold, cold and salty and sweet as the sea, and my lips warmed him as the sun warms a tidepool. Even through the kiss I was smiling, and he put his silvery hands gently on my face, just the way a faun does."

—The Orphan’s Tales: In The Night Garden, Catherynne M. Valente (via leagueofvagrants)