Her eyes were distant, and she seemed to be listening to that voice that first told her the story, a mother, sister, or aunt. Then her voice, like her singing, cut through the crickets and crackling fire.

I know they are naught things, but I devour novels.” (p. 57).

She dismounted, grabbed Enna's hand so tightly that she drew blood with her fingernails, walked straight into the nearest cottage, and plopped down on a bed. Enna nodded to the startled cottage dwellers. It's the queen, you see," said Enna. "She's going to have a baby in your house. You don't mind?

Figure out what is real for you. No use leaning on someone else's story all your life.

Seriously, a thirty-something woman shouldn't be daydreaming about a fictional character in a two-hundred-year-old world to the point where it interfered with her very real and much more important life and relationships. Of course she shouldn't.

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

Razo knew he was best at nothing, except maybe cramming two cherries into a single nostril.