Summer in Orcus

Saving a single wondrous thing is better than saving the world. For one thing, it’s more achievable. The world is never content to stay saved.

Summer had read a great many books about magic and animals and changing your shape. Summer’s mother believed that books were safe things that kept you inside, which only shows how little she knew about it, because books are one of the least safe things in the world.

The Forester patted a log next to her. 'Come and sit, child. Tell me about your journey, and start a little before the beginning, because we are usually wrong about where things begin.

It is a great relief, when one has thrown away normal life in search of their heart’s desire, to know that one is doing it right and isn’t going to get yelled at for going the wrong way.

—but the world is unfair, and sometimes we must use that unfairness to our advantage.

Ah,' said Zultan. 'I, too. I keep many books at my home.' He gestured to the books in the tent. 'These are only a few. Those I think might need on this trip, and those I have yet to read and might want, and those old friends that I cannot bear to leave behind.

Glorious cocked an ear back at her. 'Things act according to their natures,' he said. 'But sometimes our natures are complicated.

mythology is a truth that isn’t true,

Summer’s mother believed that books were safe things that kept you inside, which only shows how little she knew about it, because books are one of the least safe things in the world.

—and start a little before the beginning, because we are usually wrong about where things begin.

Summer had never had a father, and wasn’t entirely sure what you did with one.

It occurs to me,” said the weasel, going back to mussing around in her hair, “that you are laboring under the impression that I am some sort of magical familiar. I’m not. I’m really a very ordinary weasel—although quite good-looking, of course—and not magical at all.

…so what purpose is there to worry?” “It’s not as easy as that,” said Summer sadly. “I can’t stop myself from worrying.” “You’re human,” said Glorious. “Humans hoard up their fears as if the world might run out.” He huffed a laugh. “Still, you build cities with them—and towers and artworks and families and faiths. It seems to work for your people, even if it would not work for mine.” “I wish I was a wolf,” said Summer. “That is a very sensible wish,” said Glorious. “But even Baba Yaga cannot grant you that. So you will simply have to be a brave human.

Oh, well, albatrosses.”  Reginald flipped his wing. “Prophets and poets, the lot of them. Not bad-hearted, but you ask one the time of day and he tells you time is an illusion, and how is that getting anything done?

In the end, she wore a tunic with an elaborately patterned waistcoat over it. The waistcoat was for a bird, she thought, so it was rather strangely cut and seized the bottom of her ribs whenever she took a deep breath. But she found that she quite liked the look in the mirror, particularly with the cheese-sword. She looked strange and almost dangerous and quite astonishingly tanned, and when you are twelve, this is quite an accomplishment.

If I kill you,” said Glorious. “I can claim that the moon made me do it, or the sun, or a man in another land whom I have never met. But it is my teeth that have blood on them.” He turned his head so that Summer had to meet his eyes. “Do you understand?” “Yes,” said Summer.