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.

Hey, don't take this the wrong way, but don't come back, ok?

My dear Elinor, you were obviously born into the wrong story,” said Dustfinger at last.

Let's be off before he gets his great horsey teeth into my poor lines of verse!

You really don't understand the first thing about writing...for one thing, early in the morning is the worst possible time. the brain is like a wet sponge at that hour. And for another, real writing is a question of staring into space and waiting for the right ideas.

Quite suddenly Meggie felt fear rise in her like black brackish water, she felt lost, terribly lost, she felt it in every part of her. She didn't belong here! What had she done?

Farid had brought an invisible guest with him. Fear.