I didn't like anyone except me having their hands all over him. There had been possession in Wolf's touch, and Adam belonged to me.

His grandfather had often told him that he tried too hard to move trees when a wiser man would walk around them.

To make great art, you had to expose your soul, and some things should be left safely in the dark.

C’est moi, c’est moi,’tis I,' I told him. It seemed appropriately melodramatic, though I didn’t know if he’d catch the reference. I shouldn’t have worried. Unexpectedly, he laughed. “Trust you to quote Lancelot rather than Guinevere.

My foster mother always laughed and said it was his reputation for knowing everything that allowed for him to appear infallible: all he had to do was walk through the room and see who looked guiltiest when they saw him. Maybe she was right, but I tried looking innocent the next time, and it didn't work.

Wizards don't all look alike.

Trying is always enough.