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Not louder shrieks to pitying heav'n are cast,

When husbands, or when lapdogs, breathe their last.

Fair tresses man's imperial race ensnare,

And beauty draws us with a single hair.

I am nothing but a scientist of sufficiently advanced technology, which is to say a magician.

If to her share some female errors fall,

Look on her face, and you'll forget 'em all.

At every word a reputation dies.

She was starting to suspect that facing up to the nightmare of the past is what gives you the power to build your future.

Heads turned. This was gossip of the very first water—pure pharmaceutical-grade gossip.

One of the secrets Martin must have learned down below the Northern Marsh was how not to care about some things, and there was power in that, the power to live as though his actions had no consequences. It fell to us to witness the consequences, and they were ugly.

“Wishes are for children,” Jane Chatwin said. “I grew up.”

Never risking anything meant never having or doing or being anything either. Life is risk, it turned out.

“And I think I’ve figured out how. I think I finally know how to fix everything.”

“Historically speaking,” Alice said, “when people have said that they’ve almost always been wrong.”

It was funny about magic, how messy and imperfect it was. When people said something worked like magic they meant that it cost nothing and did exactly what you wanted it to. But there were lots of things magic couldn’t do. It couldn’t raise the dead. It couldn’t make you happy. He couldn’t make you good-looking. And even with the things it could do, it didn’t always do them right. And it always, always cost something.