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“Being broken isn't the worst thing. We can be mended and put together again. We don’t have to be ashamed of our past. We can embrace the history that gives us value, and see our cracks as beautiful.”
― Anna White, Mended: Thoughts on Life, Love, and Leaps of Faith

“I am torn and I am mended - I want everything and need nothing - I love you and am content without you.

Even so, come quickly!”
― Sarah Perry, The Essex Serpent

“I followed his gaze on my pillow, upon which rested a thing I did not recognize, woolen and oddly shaped.
I seized it abruptly, indignant. It was my jumper! "How---what have you---"
"I'm sorry," he said, not looking up from the flicker and flash of the needle. "But you cannot expect me to live in close proximity to clothing that barely deserves the word. It is inhumane."
I shook out the jumper, gaping. I could hardly tell it was the same garment. Yes, it was the same color, but the wool itself seemed altered, becoming softer, finer, without losing any of its warmth. And it was not a baggy square anymore; it would hang only a little loose on me now, while clearly communicating the lines of my figure.
"From now on, you will keep your damned hands off my clothes!" I snapped, then flushed, realizing how that sounded. Bambleby took no notice of any of it.
"Do you know that there are men and women who would hand over their firstborns to have their wardrobes tended by a king of Faerie?" he said, calmly snipping a thread. "Back home, every courtier wanted a few moments of my time."
"King?" I repeated, staring at him. And yet I was not hugely surprised---it would explain his magic. A king or queen of Faerie, the stories say, can tap into the power of their realm. Yet that power, while vast, is not thought to be limitless, there are tales of kings and queens falling for human trickery. And Bambleby's exile is of course additional testimony.”
― Heather Fawcett, Emily Wilde's Encyclopaedia of Faeries

“A falcon. I can see that. I thought you said nothing lived here?â€�
Sand’s face went blank. “There was nothing alive, except for me, until Merlin. And then you.�
Perrotte bit back her exasperation, and said simply, “Go on.�
He twined his blunt-tipped fingers together, staring down at them. “I, erm. I found the falcon in the mews.� “So, it’s not true that there was nothing alive in the castle?�
“The truth is . . . Well, the truth is the truth, and thus worth telling, but sometimes truths are so complicated that it’s exhausting to get them out in the right order.� He glanced up at her. That sounded like an evasion if ever she’d heard one. She raised an eyebrow.
“The falcon was dead!� Sand blurted out. “Stuffed and mounted, and then also damaged in the sundering. I mended him, and put him on the mantel, so I’d have something to talk to. But a couple days before you—you came upstairs—� He gestured helplessly at the bird, who stopped stripping water from its feathers just long enough to glare at the humans. Perrotte stared. “The bird came to life,� she whispered. “After you put it to rights, this falcon came to life. Just like me.�
“Well . . .”
― Merrie Haskell, The Castle Behind Thorns

“She holds the fabric,
threads running through her fingers,
a quiet rhythm of time.
Each patch, a piece of her,
moments sewn into the seams,
stories stitched into the space between.

The jacket grows beneath her hands,
a map of warmth and strength,
woven by the quiet care
of a woman who knows
how to make something whole
from fragments.”
― N’Zuri Za Austin

“She holds the fabric,â€� threads running through her fingers,â€� a quiet rhythm of time. 
Each patch, a piece of her,â€� moments sewn into the seams,â€� stories stitched into the space between.

The jacket grows beneath her hands,â€� a map of warmth and strength,â€� woven by the quiet careâ€� of a woman who knowsâ€� how to make something whole
from fragments.”
― N’Zuri Za Austin