Bitterblue had never seen a man naked, and she was curious. She decided the universe owed her a few minutes, just a few, to satisfy her curiosity. So she went to him and knelt, which shut him up.

The fellow who tends the greenhouse gardens? Trust me, Lady, you'd let him stake your tomatoes.

You cannot measure love by a scale of degrees.

His name was Death. It was pronounced to rhyme with "teeth", but Bitterblue liked to mispronounce it by accident on occassion.

The more I see and hear, the more I realize how much I don't know.

Everyone wants a bit of something beautiful." Clara said. "Among the wealthy it's the rare skins and furs sold on the black market. With everyone else it's whatever they find clogging the gutters or killed in the housetraps. It al amounts to the same thing, of course, but the rich people feel better knowing they've paid a fortune.

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