What Feasts at Night (Sworn Soldier, #2)

by T. Kingfisher

may he shit pinecones in hell—

Angus sat back on his heels and began unloading his pack, setting out bread and cheese and a bottle of wine that was, fortunately, not from Gallacia. (You really don’t want to drink our wine. We export it because we don’t want to drink it either.)

Angus leaned down and pulled a small amber bottle out of his pack. He didn’t even need to open it before I recognized the smell of livrit, our beloved national paint thinner, made from lichen, cloudberries, and spite. No Gallacian soldier would be without a bottle, in case we ever need to remember what we’re fighting for. (Mostly the opportunity to be somewhere that has better liquor.)

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

After dinner, we broke into the wine and, more importantly, the livrit. Miss Potter had never experienced livrit, and if we were good people, we would have allowed her to remain in that state of grace.