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.

So this was a nest of radicals. She thought a hotbed of sedition would involve more gunpowder and secret handshakes, and less shuffling of feet and passing the sugar.

You, sir, are a romantic, and I'm afraid the condition is incurable. -Eponymous Clent

In Mosca’s experience, a ‘long story’ was always a short story someone did not want to tell.

Push something in someone’s face, and they will shove it away reflexively. Threaten to snatch it away from them, and sometimes they become convinced that it is what they want.

Tea is the magic key to the vault where my brain is kept.

You’re a peach full of poison, you know that?" Mosca snapped back, but could not quite keep a hint of admiration from her tone.