A fiction writer is never entirely alone. Her characters are constantly whispering in her ear.

His aster-blue eyes shown out from a face blackened by bruises and soot, his fair hair glittering in the firelight. Dressed all in black, silhouetted against flame, he looked rather like a demon, raised from the dead, trading for souls on the other side.

Why aren't you dead?" Will demanded.

He keeps this up, he's bound to be caught, she thought. And this time they'll dangle him for certain.

Hope is a dangerous thing, Raisa thought. Once kindled, it's hard to put out. It makes wise people into fools.

He would find a way to make it work, because he finally understood that sometimes you have to raise your expectations. And sometimes you need to make a claim on the world and the people you love to get what you most desire

Just tell me you don't love me, and I'll let the matter drop." "What?" "What I said. Just say, 'Rai, I don't love you and I never will'. It's that simple." "Raisa, this is getting us nowhere." "Say it!