From the tower battlements, Dustfinger looked down on a lake as black as night, where the reflection of the castle swam in a sea of stars. The wind passing over his unscarred face was cold from the snow of the surrounding mountains, and Dustfinger relished life as if he were tasting it for the first time. The longing it brought, and the desire. All the bitterness, all the sweetness, even if it was only for a while, never for more than a while, everything gained and lost, lost and found again.

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

Every German child learns to speak English in school.

Sometimes Dustfinger thought Basta's constant fear of curses and sudden disaster probably arose from his terror of the darkness within himself, which made him assume that the rest of the world must be exactly the same.

Children are caterpillars and adults are butterflies. No butterfly ever remembers what it felt like being a caterpillar.

She is a real bookworm. I think she lives on print. Her whole house is full of books - looks as if she likes them better than human company.

Reality is a fragile thing.