Mine. The language of love is like that, possessive. That should be the first warning that it’s not going to encourage anyone’s betterment.
Oak was never taught to fight any way but to kill. He doesn’t know any elegant parries. He cannot show off. All he can do is deal death. And once he starts, he doesn’t stop. I’m not sure he can.
He might not want to hurt me, but that doesn’t mean he won’t.
At least the hem of the skirt doesn’t drag impractically on the floor. I can still run in it as I howl at the moon.
Don’t have gold?′ calls an antlered shopkeeper. ‘Pay with a lock of hair, a year of your life, a dream you wish to never have again.
It is no life to be always under someone’s control, subject to their will and whim.
I didn’t mean to hurt you.” He grabs my hand, possibly to keep me from hitting him again. Our fingers lace together. “No, it’s not that, not exactly. I didn’t think I could hurt you. And I never thought you would be afraid of me.
I know the number of steps to the top of every spire. I know every corner that a child could hide in, every place she could be dragged out from.
I am in over my head. I am drowning.
Enjoy your conversation.” Maybe they will. They both hate me. That gives them something in common.
And if I am particularly kind that evening, particularly deferential, if I laugh particularly loudly, it is because I know I will never do this again. I will never have him behave like this with me again. But for one final night, he’s the father I remember best, the one in whose shadow I have- for better or worse- become what I am.
Since I cannot imagine there is much in the human lands to interest you, I can only suppose your continued absence in Elfhame is due to me. I urge you. Come be angry at a nearer distance.
Only idiots aren’t afraid of scary things.
You can’t help trying to charm every snake you come upon, no matter how cold-blooded or vicious. Let that one be.
Isn’t that sweet?′ Hyacinthe says, the first words I’ve heard him speak. ‘Riding your sister’s horse into battle. Have you anything of your own, prince? Or just girls’ castoffs and scraps?
Cardan draws a sharp breath and then lets it out slowly. ‘I’d prefer to live.
We’re enemies, no matter how many jokes he tells or how friendly he seems. Charmers are charming, but that’s all they are.
I am dreaming away my days, restless, never fully awake.
He reaches toward me, as though he’s going to run his fingers over the bruises. I bring up the crossbow, and he thinks better of it.
Faeries despise humans as liars, but there are different kinds of lying.
She’s clearly shocked by my behavior. She should be. My behavior is shocking.