Ah, Ivy, thought Alexia happily, spreading a verbal fog wherever she goes.

She poked him in the center of his chest with two fingers to punctuate her words. “You are an unfeeling”—poke —“traitorous”—poke—“mistrusting”—poke—“rude”—poke —“booby!” Every poke turned him mortal, but Lord Maccon didn’t seem to mind it in the least. Instead he grabbed the hand that poked him and brought it to his lips. “You put it very well, my love.

It was a constant source of amazement to Alexia that the only thing she had ever done in her entire life that pleased her mama was marry a werewolf.

His eyes were jet-colored circles of perpetual disapproval.

Felicity grimaced in agreement. “No, you are perfectly correct. I did not realize how vital the approbation of one’s butler is in allowing for nocturnal autonomy.

I have died and gone to the land of bad novels.

I believe there is a considerable range in the bang of most guns.