Making a wish is like saying, 'I can't deal with anything, I give up, somebody bigger come along and solve it all instead.

My child, you have a flawed grasp of the nature of myth-making. I am a poet and storyteller, a creator of ballads and sagas. Pray do not confuse the exercise of the imagination with mere mendacity. I am a master of the mysteries of words, their meanings and music and mellifluous magic.

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

The world is like a broken wrist that healed the wrong way, and will never be the same again.

Sometimes fear made you angry. Perhaps after years anger cooled, like a sword taken from a forge. Perhaps in the end you were left with something very cold and very sharp.

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.

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.