“How do you always know just what to say?" I ask.
His laugh rumbles through me. "Practice, I guess."
I pull back and give him a quizzical look.
"I spent three years imagining what I would say to you if you were mine," he says, tugging me close.
"I should hope I know what to say now that I've got you.”
“You're watching me, princess." His soft lips spread into an appreciative smile.
"People might get the wrong idea."
"What, that I actually like you now?" I tease.
He shakes his head and leans toward me. "No, that you're trying to see past me to get an eyeful of Benson."
-------------------------------------------
I shift my gaze to the board and fix an innocent look on my face.
"What makes you think that's the WRONG idea?"
Quince leans even closer and says, "Because you came back for me.”
“You'll do fine."
"What, you're psychic now?"
"Didn't you know?" he asks seriously. "Must be an aftereffect of the bond.”
“Are you going to distract me by playing footsie?"
"Absolutely, princess," he says with a wink.
"Then I won't remember a thing."
"It's a samurai training technique," he teases, spinning the test prep book toward him. "I distract you as much as possible right now." He slides the book into his lap. "And you'll learn how to test through anything.”
“Pleased to meet you," Tellin says, shaking me out of my reverie. "Lily told me much about you last weekend."
"Funny." Quince throws me a questioning glance. "She didn't mention you at all.”
“You'll get in," Quince assures me, proving once again that he can read my mind, even without a magical bond. "And if you don't," he adds, slinging an arm around my shoulders, "you can always take over for me at the lumberyard."
"Ha ha," I reply, sending a sharp elbow into his ribs.
"Lighten up, princess.”
“Born evil? I know of no such person, even in the annals of crime or in the biographies of despots. The answer here is no.”
“Loosely translated Der schlechte Affe hasst seinen eigenen Geruch means that people are most deeply offended by moral failings that mirror their own.”
“People fear anyone who differs from what is considered normal, and in a small town the idea of normal can be as narrow as the streets.”
“Why don’t you tell me your name?”
“No.”
“Very well. Your rank?”
“What would a woman understand of rank?”
“What does my sex have to do with my understanding?”
“As I have said, women are not warriors.”
“Perhaps in your society they aren’t, but in Frewyn we do very well for ourselves.”
“I don’t want these memories to become slippery, to just disappear into the thin air of life the way most things seem to. I want them to stick – even the bad ones – so I repeat them often.”
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