There was a basket at her feet. She reached into it and lifted out the head of a young woman, a marquise. She wore Bourbon white to her death, but wears the tricolor now - white cheeks, blue lips, red dripping from her neck. Long live the revolution.

But his words fall away. He looks confused. He looks flustered and sorry. Like you do when you run up to someone you think you know and take her arm and she turns around and you were wrong.

Turn away. From the darkness, the madness, the pain. Open your eyes and look at the light.

Funny, 'ow you can 'old a jewel in your 'and, and toss it away, and not even know what you 'ad until it's gone.

Meet me where the sky touches the sea. Wait for me where the world begins.

You can't argue with the dead, no matter what you say, they always have the last word.

Writers are damned liars. Every single one of them.