“Because, when I was away, I couldn't stop thinking about you. Part of me said, yes, it was the right thing to do, for your sake; part of me recognized the kind of man I am, the kind of work I do, the utter impossibility of it. But the other part of me... I felt your absence like a wound.”
“That's lovely singing, Saraid," Eile said. "Is Sorry asleep now?"
Saraid shook her head solemnly. "Sorry's sad. Crying." She held the doll against her shoulder, patting its back.
"Oh. Why is she sad?"
"Sorry wants Feeler come back." It was like a punch in the gut. She had thought Saraid had forgotten him; she had assumed new friends and a safe haven would drive the memories of that long journey across country, just the three of them, from her daughter's mind. Foolish. The images of that time were still bright and fresh in her own head; she dreamed of them every night. Why should Saraid be any different just because she was small?”
“The rain accompanied Faolan as he travelled inland to the crossroads where he must at last make a choice of ways. He tried to fix his mind on the decision ahead, but thoughts of Deord intruded: Deord strong and serene as guard to a solitary, gifted captive; Deord devoting all he had left, after Breakstone, to keeping that wrongly imprisoned man safe from his own brother and from himself. Deord, at the end, fighting one last, heroic battle and dying so Faolan and Ana and the remarkable Drustan could go free.”
“Faolan launched himself across the bridge, uttering a prayer to any deity that might be prepared to listen. "Let me reach her in time, let her keep hold, let this wretched apology for a bridge not crumble under my feet...”
“Na enxerga, Saraid dormia. Eile fazia o mesmo com os longos cabelos espalhados pela almofada como um rio de chamas escuras. Junto da fogueira, os homens de Pitnochie mantinham-se silenciosos, enrolados nos seus cobertores. Ninguém o ouvia; apenas as sombras.”
“The more powerful you become, the more others will find ways to master you. They'll do it through those you love and those you hate. They will find the bit and the bridle that fits your mouth and will make you yield. ”
“So, ah, I'm not sure if you know this, but you're not wearing a shirt."
"Distracting, isn't it?”
“She turned to Skulduggery and held out her arms. “Come here, you.”
He tilted his head. “My hugs are for special occasions only.”
“I prefer the old tradition.”
“Would a handshake do?”
“A pat on the back?”
She stepped forward and wrapped her arms round him. “Hug,” she said.
He sighed, and his hands settled on her shoulders. The others were warm and their embraces strong – with Skulduggery the hug was cold, and there were areas on his jacket that gave way beneath her fingers, and she could feel the emptiness within. She didn’t mind.”
“I’m worthless,” Lionheart says. “I couldn’t save her. I couldn’t redeem my honor.” “You never can,” the Prince replies. He takes Lionheart by the shoulders and forces him to sit up, to face him. “But do you think my grace insufficient to forgive you?”
“I want you to know it was no big deal...those movies showing women screaming in labor are plain bullshit....there's nothing to it...you just push and push and finally the baby pops out...to tell you the truth I don't even rember that much about it except there was a very nice guy standing over me and every time a strong contraction started he gave me a whiff of gas...”
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