I met the oddest little fellow today, Alan of Trebond.

At last Niko dropped his hands, and opened his eyes. His perfect tree illusion solidified and settled. "Very nice," said Briar with approval. "Couldn't have done better myself" "Couldn't do it at all yourself," muttered Tris. Briar ignored her. "But you'd never find a cork oak in these parts. Too cold." Niko looked down his nose at the boy. "I beg your pardon?" Briar shrugged. "Just thought I'd mention it." Niko glared.

What people tell me they take away from my books is that they can shape their lives, they can achieve their own dreams. And certainly that's what I want them to take away.

Why do I get the feeling that if you give me a hard time, I'll tell all of our year-mates your family nickname is Meathead?

Most important of all, there is no right or wrong way to write - there's only what works for you. I was taught to write every day, but I know a writer (a bestseller at that!) who only writes on weekends.

She has teeth like stars and hair like sheep fuzz

No more is your master a god, Nobility, but he wants offerings from all. When Black God claims us, who will be punished for giving worship and power to a false god? The prince? Or Banjiku?