What Feasts at Night (Sworn Soldier, #2)

by T. Kingfisher

The silence didn’t feel peaceful. It felt thick. Like the layer of fuzz on your tongue after a hard night of drinking, which you can’t see or touch but you can damn well taste. There weren’t even any birds singing.

Come to think of it, the silence was a lot like tinnitus. It rang in my ears the same way, drowning out everything around it, and making my thoughts echo unpleasantly inside my skull, as if every word was being read out just a little too slowly.

Tomorrow, in my experience, is only worth worrying about when there’s something you can do about it.

Dinner that night was particularly lavish, the Widow apparently feeling that the doctor was a worthy enemy and thus should be fed until he damn well choked. I made a note to bring enemies to dinner more often.

Though you might consider building a sauna. It won’t hurt, and even if it doesn’t help, at least then you’ll have a sauna.”

“May we always have the choice to err on the side of mercy,” I said, lifting my wine.

“Something bad happened to both of us, too. We don’t deserve to fall apart either.”