Truly, we are the gods' own children, forged in the fire of our tortured pasts, but also blessed with unimaginable gifts.

He does not start guiltily, as he should, but frowns in annoyance. "Who are you?" I slip my hand through the slit of my overskirt, and my fingers close around the hard wood of the crossbow tiller. "Vengeance," I say softly.

I blew that clay pigeon to smithereens. I don't know why Mum got so upset. According to Uncle Andrew she's a crack shot herself. But she says I'm too young. What I'd like to know is how old does a person have to be before they get to do all the fun stuff?

When one consorts with assassins, one must expect to dance along the edge of a knife once or twice.

I stare at him coldly. "I do not care for needlework." I pause. "Unless it involves the base of the skull.

I have found it is surprisingly difficult to remain sad when a cat is doing its level best to sandpaper one's cheeks.

I bear a deep red stain that runs from my left shoulder down to my right hip, a trail left by the herbwitch's poison that my mother used to try to expel me from her womb.