Eleanor's voice was below zero. 'My finest horse to whichever faerie in this room brings me that woman's left eye.' My thoughts exactly.

Have you heard of the legends of sleeping kings? The legends that heroes like Llewellyn and Glendower and Arthur aren’t really dead, but are instead sleeping in tombs, waiting to be woken?

I was wild and tame and pulled into shreds and crushed into being all at once.

My good mood felt like an endangered species.

My words are unerring tools of destruction, and I’ve come unequipped with the ability to disarm them.

Sean, as always, gets by on one word while everyone else needs five or six.

I'm an equation that only she solves, these X's and Y's by other names called. My way of dividing is desperately flawed as I multiply the days without her" - Page 165