The Runaway Queen

It was a very bad idea. It was a terrible idea. It was the worst idea he had ever heard. It was irresistible.

He tried to learn seductive phrases in all languages, but the only Swedish he had ever really needed was, "Do you serve anything aside from pickled fish?" and "If you wrap me in furs, I can pretend to be your little fuzzy bear.

Hello," Magnus said to the monkey. The monkey did not reply. "I shall call you Ragnor.

Are you, monsieur, a man of your word?" "It really depends upon the word," Magnus said. "There are so many wonderful words...

It was a bit warm. Still. If one could look this fabulous, one had an obligation to. One should wear everything, or one should wear nothing at all.

Someday," Magnus said, looking at the crumpled royal person at his feet, "I must write my memoirs.

It really was getting difficult to be wonderful.

I'll need you to get a leash for my monkey, Claude, and also a hat." "Of course, monsieur" "Do you think he needs a little coat as well?" "Perhaps not in this weather, monsieur." "You are right," Magnus said with a sight. "Make it a simple dressing gown, just like mine." "Which one, monsieur?" "The one in rose and silver." "Excellent choice, monsieur.

Oh, the universe had outdone herself. The universe would be send flowers.

If one could look this fabulous, one had an obligation to.

There was no way possible [the queen] could have done all of the things the pamphleteers claimed. The crimes were too gross, too immoral and far too physically challenging. Magnus himself had never attempted half of them.

When one steals a flying balloon and animates it to fly over Paris, one should, ideally, have some idea how said balloon normally works.

It had been a whim, and there was nothing Magnus attached more importance to than a whim.

How generous the universe could be, when he wanted to be!

In Paris one could have the eyes of a cat (as he did) and tell people it was a trick of fashion.

Vampires, fey folk, werewolves, Shadowhunters, and demons - these things made sense to Magnus. But the mundane world - it seemed to have no pattern, no form. Their quicksilver politics. Their short lives...

One did not turn down an invitation from Saint Cloud. At least, one didn't if one wanted to continue living contentedly in Paris. Vampires took offense so easily - and Parisian vampires were the worst of all.

Magnus thought once again of the blue-eyed man standing in his parlor. Then he lit a match and burned the note.