When Skye first realizes that her own house is trying to kill her, she trips over one of Hound's old toys and almost breaks her neck.
Home is where the heart is, she hears, singsong at the edge of her mind, and what's a home without a broken and diseased heart to match?
Shut up, she growls, and nearly lands face first in a pile of laundry.
Mr. Penderwick waves out her from where he's mowing the lawn.
Jane's hands tighten around the back of Skye's neck, and she wonders briefly if this is how it ends-
death by strangling, windpipes deprived of oxygen, and she's survived this far but has yet to encounter anything as startling/;
"You know, in civilized society, this is what's known as affection."
Skye chokes out a laugh, and maybe half a pint of blood (Jane really needs to tone down the zombie thing).
"How's Jane?" Rosalind asks, as soon as Skye's cleared the doorframe.
Perfect, Skye wants to respond, and fragile and daring and alive, but she can't bring herself to say it so she just nods through the tears that are inevitably coming, because Skye Penderwick doesn't cry, except when she does, except when she's covered in blood and dirt and sweat and skin covering bones.
It's kind of gross.
She's never felt more at home.