I am a connoisseur of fine irony. 'Tis a bit like fine wine, but it has a better bite.

I am a connoisseur of fine irony. 'Tis a bit like fine wine, but it has a better bite.

She was sitting in a garden more beautiful than even her rampaging imagination could ever have conjured up, and she was being serenaded by trees.

Say me aye," he whispered against her mouth. "Say me aye." How could she say anything else?

He lifed his head and looked down at her seriously. "Could you," he began, then he had to clear his throat. "Could you learn to be fond of me?" he asked. "With enough time?" She looked at him in surprise. It was the first time in all their acquaintance that she'd heard him sound the least bit hesitant. "I don't need to learn anything," she said, before she thought better of it.

I could tell you a tale about something,' Miach offered, rubbing her hand absently. 'If you like.' She frowned thoughtfully. 'What sort of something?' 'Something that would soothe you,' he promised. 'I'm sure there would be swords involved. Bloodshed. Peril. That kind of thing.

Shut up," Morgan said, whirling on the woman and pointing the sword at her. "Shut up, you shrill harpy, before I aid you in doing so by means of a dozen ways you won't care for in the least." Adhémar's fiancée fell, blessedly, silent.