Sarah J. Maas · 70 pages
Rating: (24.7K votes)
“He couldn't be dead. Not from the dagger, or those dozen pirates, or from the catapult. No, Sam couldn't be so stupid that he'd get himself killed. She'd... she'd... Well she'd kill him if he was dead.”
“Sam smiled, his brown eyes turning golden in the dawn. It was such a Sam look, the twinkle of mischief, the hint of exasperation, the kindness that would always, always make him a better person than she was.”
“Nervous?" he asked, his voice barely audible above the steady slice of his oars through the calm bay.
"No," she lied.
"Me too.”
“She'd... she'd... Well she'd kill him if he was dead.”
“She lifted her chin. "I've been shouting for you."
Sam shrugged, sauntering over to her. "I figured you could wait a few minutes, given that I saved the day and all." His brows rose high on his ash-covered face.
"Some hero." She gestured to the ruin of the tower around them. "I've never seen such sloppy work”
“Embracing Sam was different, somehow. Like she wanted to curl into his warmth, like for one moment, she didn't have to worry about anything or anybody.”
“Celaena?” Sam asked into the dark. “Should I worry about going to sleep?”
She blinked, then laughed under her breath. At least Sam took her threats somewhat seriously.”
“Sam stared at her long enough for heat to flood her cheek, as if he could see right inside of her-see everything. The fact that he didn't turn away from whatever he saw made her blood thrum through her veins.”
“Maybe I'm just unable to resist how handsome he is," she said. Sam went rigid.
"He's twelve years older than you."
"So?" He didn't think he was serious, did he?”
“But he was a filthy pirate. They were Arobynn Hamel's assassin-educated, wealthy, refined. Slavery was beneath them.”
“Supongo que si vamos a morir, más vale que sea por una causa noble”
“Come on, Sardothien,” he said, slinging an arm around her shoulders. “If you’re done liberating slaves and destroying pirate cities, then let’s go home.”
“to make up in an hour for all their wasted yesterdays.”
“First she got Jesus, probably fifteen years ago, and that didn’t work out, so she tried Scientology, and that didn’t help, but it cost a lot of money, so she tried Buddhism and yoga, and those didn’t work, so she started drinking. I think that helped, because she’s still drinking.”
“He had the desperation, not the courage, to be himself. Once you do that, you can’t go wrong, because you can’t make any mistakes when people love you for being yourself. But for Kurt, it didn’t matter that other people loved him; he simply didn’t love himself enough.”
“Ah, Robert?”
“Shhhh, not while I’m praying,” he said, momentarily losing his place before he started again, “thank you for letting us survive that trip from hell. Thank you for ignoring my prayers for a quick death when I didn’t think that I’d be able to survive another day of starvation,” he said, making her roll her eyes in annoyance.
“You were given three full meals a day just like everyone else,” she pointed out, not bothering to mention the fact that, on most days, he’d received second helpings. She sat down on a bench near their luggage, wondering just how much longer he was going to keep this up.
“I’m sorry for all the cursing that my wife forced me to do while I was on that boat,” he continued, ignoring her even as he amused her. “As you know, she’s been such a bad influence on me. Thank you for pulling me from near death and somehow giving me the strength to survive.”
“Near death?” she asked, frowning. “When were you near death?”
“When was I near death?” he asked in stunned disbelief as he opened his eyes so that he could glare at her.
“How could you forget all those times that I could barely move? When I struggled to find the will to live so that I wouldn’t leave you a young widow? Did my struggle for survival mean nothing to you?” he demanded in outrage, terrifying the people that were forced to walk past him to get to the docks and making her wrack her brain as she struggled to figure out what he was talking about.
“Do you mean those few times when you had a touch of seasickness?” she asked, unable to think of anything else that he could be talking about since he’d been the picture of health during the majority of the trip.
“A touch?” he repeated in disbelief. “I nearly died!”
“the beaches. In literally hundreds of instances, a vessel’s ignorance of her longitude led swiftly to her destruction. Launched on a mix of bravery and greed, the sea captains of the fifteenth, sixteenth, and seventeenth centuries relied on “dead reckoning” to gauge their distance east or west of home port. The captain would throw a log overboard and observe how quickly the ship receded from this temporary guidepost. He noted the crude speedometer reading in his ship’s logbook, along with the direction of travel, which he took from the stars or a compass, and the length of time on a particular course, counted with a sandglass or a pocket watch. Factoring in the effects of ocean currents, fickle winds, and errors in judgment, he then determined his longitude. He routinely missed his mark, of course—searching”
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