And there stood Basta with his foot already on another dead body, smiling. Why not? He had hit his target, and it was the target he had been aiming for all along: Dustfinger’s heart, his stupid heart. It broke in two as he held Farid in his arms, it simply broke in two, although he had taken such good care of it all these years.

perhaps because this time not fear but love made him read.

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?

There could be few men whose love for a woman had been written on his face with a knife.

Isn't it odd how much fatter a book gets when you've read it several times?

The sea always filled her with longing, though for what she was never sure.

She had only to open a door, nothing but a door between the words,just large enough for her and Farid to pass through.