Secrets press inside a person. They press the way water presses at a dam. The secrets and the water, they both want to get out.

It’s one thing if a person learns you’re a witch. It’s quite another if he learns you’re a murderer. I almost forget I’m a witch now that I know I’m a murderer—murderess, actually. Murderess sounds so much worse.

It's the picnic principle. Things taste better outdoors. And if it's a forbidden thing, so much the better.

Guess what it is that turns plants to coal. Pressure. Guess what it is that turns limestone to marble. Pressure. Guess what it is that turns Briony's heart to stone. Pressure. Pressure is uncomfortable, but so are the gallows. Keep your secrets, wolfgirl. Dance your fists with Eldric's, snatch lightning from the gods. Howl at the moon, at the blood-red moon. Let your mouth be a cavern of stars.

Let’s hope she’s like the others, who look only at the surface. Let’s hope she’d never think that a girl with black-velvet eyes and cut-glass cheekbones could be a witch.

Our English monarchs are so unimaginative,” said Eldric. “They execute people in such tediously conventional ways.

Blast Cecil!” said Eldric. “You have my permission,” I said.