... fantasy is not practice for what is real—fantasy is the opiate of women.

Smell is the voice of the soul.

I’m sorry, my lady,” said Geric, rubbing his arm. “But I failed to force an apology out of the offending goose.

The book smelled dusty and old but also carried a sweet tang, a hint of something inviting. She opened to the first page and started to read, pronouncing the words in a reverent whisper.

I wonder if everyone who faces death hurts like this. It's as though for the first time I realize how much just being alive makes my body ache. But I don't want that ache to stop.

Enna leaned back her head and laughed at the sky. 'Of course he wasn't! Who could kill Razo?

How I keep trying to force our story into a fairy tale, but from the beginning, it's been more like a nursery rhyme." "Bizarre and adorable?" "Just like you." "With rings in your pockets and bells on your toes" "Ooh, I should really invest in some toes bells.