Who are you?' Mo looked at the White Women. Then he looked at Dustfinger's still face. Guess.' The bird ruffled up its golden feathers, and Mo saw that the mark on its breast was blood. You are Death.' Mo felt the word heavy on his tongue. Could any word be heavier?

a book always keeps something of its owner between its pages.

Why did death make life taste so much sweeter? Why could the heart love only what it could also lose?

Nothing is more terrifying than fearlessness.

It's a good idea to have your own books with you in a strange place

I prefer a story that has the good sense to stay on the page where it belongs. - Elinor

No prince had lived in those wretched hovels, no red-robed bishops, only farmers and laborers whose stories no one had written down, and now they were lost, buried under wild thyme and fast growing spurge.