The storm ate up September’s cry of despair, delighted at its mischief, as all storms are.

It is best in the end to let women see to their own vengeance.

All jobs are odd, or they would be games or naps or picnics.

No one is now what they were before the war. There’s just no getting any of it back.

I am freedom and I will eat your heart

Magic does that. It wastes you away. Once it grips you by the ear, the real world gets quieter and quieter, until you can hardly hear it at all.

However wretched her origins, she chose freely to continue her crimes against us from the moment she woke to this life. It is easy to forgive beautiful women, especially when they lay a sorrowful tale before you like a sugar-dusted meal. It does not mean they deserve forgiveness.