But after all, the villains are the salt in the soup of a story.

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?

Power. Intoxicating. Like a fine wine.

What are stories for if we don't learn from them?

Children, they're the same everywhere. Greedy little creatures but the best listeners in the world - any world. The very best of all.

Read – and be curious. And if somebody says to you: 'Things are this way. You can't change it' - don't believe a word.

Mo could paint pictures in the empty air with his voice alone.