When I read this at 24 I loved the fairy tale aspects. I dreamed of a man who was really a bird, deeply strange friends, something worth going to war for.

Reading this at 34, I felt every ache in Marya's bones as she aged. Saw myself in her wariness, her willingness, her strength.

Then, and now, I love the way that every story is just the same story. I think when we are young, we are more apt to let the universe make our choices for us, and as we get older, we see the patterns, and we make the decision for ourselves so at least it feels like a choice. Even when it isn't.