Wuthering Heights by Emily Brontë (summary from Amazon.com):
Wuthering Heights is Emily Brontë’s only novel. It was first published in 1847 under the pseudonym Ellis Bell, and a posthumous second edition was edited by her sister Charlotte. The name of the novel comes from the Yorkshire manor on the moors on which the story centres (as an adjective, wuthering is a Yorkshire word referring to turbulent weather). The narrative tells the tale of the all-encompassing and passionate, yet thwarted, love between Heathcliff and Catherine Earnshaw, and how this unresolved passion eventually destroys them and many around them.
I couldn’t go to her burial. I didn’t see the body.
She had run out on the moors, the skirts of her blue dress trailing, her feet bare. She left tracks through the heather and footprints on the mosses. It was foggy that day. Where she stepped, the dewy beadwork on the grasses was torn and scattered. The earliest spring petals were strewn.
At the earliest sign of spring these last years, E– came calling and we walked on the moor. She loved to climb on the rocks, cutting her feet but emerging standing at the top, her cheeks pink and the wind whipping her dark hair.
“Come up to me!” she cried, stretching out her hands.
We buried you on a Friday. It was the summer solstice. Your mom rubbed circles on my back as they lowered your simple wooden box into the ground. Your dad spoke to no one, his clothing ripped on the right side. Everyone grabbed a handful of dirt and dropped it on your coffin. Tears ran down my cheeks and splashed onto my hands, but not because you were dead — you weren’t — I cried because of the thumbtacks I’d slipped into the straps of my cork wedges. Every step pushed the pin into a new inch of flesh. How else could I grieve for you, Tavi? You weren’t dead. You promised.
Hundreds of people turned out for your burial. At the end, your family friends from Temple formed two lines, facing each other, and recited, “Hamakom y’nachem etchem b’toch sh’ar availai tziyon ee yerushalayim,” as your parents made their way to their car.
Your mom told me later, while she sat Shiva, that it was a traditional condolence. “Those are words for the living.”
When Leib jumped into her lap and pushed his head against her hand, I almost let slip that he’d been our best experiment. Leib was one life down from nine, but we’d brought him back, and now he’d never die. We’d breathed life into his body three days after suffocating him in the basement.
They were killing her, and I couldn’t stand it. I had no plan, but they did.
Maderas had one goal, and making more of her was it, even if it meant breaking her in the process. Her tiny nape feathers brushed against my cheek, and she smelled like ash and copper. Hummingbirds should smell like nectar, but they’d bled her dry. And for what? Nothing more than beauty. One drop of her blood could make even the most shriveled crow look young again. I was just a sparrow, but I knew her beauty belonged to her alone.
“Jess?” Her voice was a whisper lost in the crunching of snow under my horse’s hooves, but I heard her.