If only it were that easy to let go of hate. Just relax your face.

All right," sighed Madrigal. "To the baths, then. To make ourselves shiningly clean." Like vegetable, she thought, before they go in the stew.

Take up a weapon and you become an instrument with as pure a purpose as the weapon itself: to find arteries and open them, limbs and sever them; to take what is alive and deliver it unto death.

Mercy, she had discovered, made mad alchemy: a drop of it could dilute a lake of hate.

I'm afraid they're in love," he said, concerned. "They don't want to leave you." He lifted one hand from her waist to gently brush a pair from her neck, where their wings fanned against her jaw. Melancholy, he said, "I know just how they feel.

Boredom is a terrible affliction of the soulless.

...I said I was sorry.” “Be sorry, then. Just be sorry somewhere else.