the well written - gregory maguire

Ranuccio waited until the sound of the girl’s progress had become swallowed 
up in the back-and-forth of wind through leaves.  Now there was the creak of 
an oak limb, now a silence through which a distant stream could be heard to 
murmur.  Now a rush of wind again—and, and—the world had sealed over, 
had healed itself of the girl’s presence, as if she had never lived.  Had even 
forgotten her absence.  Even he, used to hearing a beetle pause and inspect 
itself under a fallen log, was dizzy with the mystery of how fully she had been 
taken away.  What was her name, even?

- Gregory Maguire, Mirror Mirror

By Benjamin Lacombe.