My good lady,’ interrupted Clent, ‘are you telling me that he is not the Luck? That you have in some way obfuscated the chronology of his nativity?’ Seconds passed. A beetle flew into Mistress Leap’s hair while she stared at Clent, then it struggled free and flew off again. ‘Did you lie about when he was born?’ translated Mosca.

Oh, painted smirk of a hopeless dawn, the girl is still wearing her breeches.

It did seem hard to be doing something heroic while everyone was too busy to notice.

If you want someone to tell you what to think..." "You will never be short of people willing to do so.

I am anything I wish to be. The world cannot choose for me. No, it is for me to choose what the world shall be.

It was hopeless. She was flawless. She was a sunbeam. Mosca gave up and got on with hating her.

Perhaps illnesses could be left behind, just like small, badly concealed china corpses.