It was a hurting tune, resigned, a cry of heartache for all in the world that fell apart. As ash rose black against the brilliant sky, Fire's fiddle cried out for the dead, and for the living who stay behind to say goodbye.

Garan snorted. "Now that we know about his indigestion, we can torture him with cake.

How acutely sometimes the presence or absence of people mattered

I wish people would stop hitting Po," whispered Bitterblue. "Well," Giddon said. "Yes. I'm hoping Skye is following my model. Punch Po; go on a long trip; feel better; come back and make up.

You're in fine temper," Raffin said. "Your hair is blue," she snapped back.

Part of avoiding thoughts about something was not encouraging opportunities for that something to makes itself felt.

There's no shame in crawling when one can't walk.