Cornelia Funke

The book she had been reading was under her pillow, pressing its cover against her ear as if to lure her back into its printed pages. “I’m sure it must be very comfortable sleeping with a hard, rectangular thing like that under your head,” her father had teased the first time he found a book under her pillow. “Go on, admit it, the book whispers its story to you at night.”

Cornelia Funke, Inheart

It was a particulary sunny day, though the warmth from the sun was a small comfort for the wind waxing and waning, a cold that cut like a knife through his thickest jacket.  There is no such thing as nice weather in the winter, he thought as he put his frozen hands in his dark brown jacket.  He cursed why he was out on this terribly windy day, what must be as cold as death, and muttered to his companion “This damn weather would like to kill me.” His partner laughed, he was a small man, a full head shorter than the man in the brown jacket, with a full head of dirty blond hair.  He adjusted his jacket, black as midnight, and imitated the tall man putting his own stubby hands in his jacket pockets. He looked up at the other man and stated, “It’s not so bad, at least the suns out.” The tall man snarled, and looked at the smaller man down a somewhat crooked nose that had been obviously broken before.  As long as they had worked together they still almost never got along. “I know the sun is out, but I can’t take this wind much longer.” “You might not have to,” the short man said, looking off towards the path, “Here they come.”