My mother was a children's librarian. I remember when traditional stories were revised for modern audiences until they bore only a nodding acquaintance with the originals, but were released as 'authentic Indian stories' when they were, in fact, nothing of the kind.

It is one of those lessons that every child should learn: Don't play with fire, sharp objects, or ancient artifacts.

It is not wise to give something old and powerful something they care about. And I am very old.

Love thy enemies, it says in the scriptures. My foster mother always added, "At the very least, you will be polite to them.

I like that people can just look at you and know that you are taken, that you are mine.” He closed his eyes and laughed. “And yes, I know that sentiment is at the top of the Women’s Liberation Movement’s list of things not to say to a modern woman

Adam has always had . . . heroic tendencies.” I touched Adam’s arm. “He’s my hero.” There was another pause. . . “That is the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard you say,” Bran said. “Be careful, Adam, or you’ll turn her into a real girl.” Adam looked at me. “I like her just the way she is, Bran.” And he meant it, greasy overalls, broken fingernails, and all.

Not that I'd really been planning on keeping the attack secret; it had just been an option I'd wanted to keep open if I could.