You'll lie wi' me now," he said quietly. "And I shall use ye as I must. And if you'll have your revenge for it, then take it and welcome, for my soul is yours, in all the black corners of it.

Overall, the library held a hushed exultation, as though the cherished volumes were all singing soundlessly within their covers.

Well I am still not drunk" I straightened up against the pillows as best I could. "You told me once that if you could still stand up, you weren't drunk." You aren't standing up." he point out. You are.

No wonder he was so good with horses, I thought blearily, feeling his fingers rubbing gently behind my ears, listening to the soothing, incomprehensible speech. If I were a horse, I’d let him ride me anywhere.

Conflict and character are the heart of good fiction, and good mystery has both of those in spades.

And if Time is anything akin to God, I suppose that Memory must be the Devil.

It was a beautiful bright autumn day, with air like cider and a sky so blue you could drown in it.