The Bands of Mourning (Mistborn, #6)

by Brandon Sanderson

“You gonna be all right?” Wayne asked. “Of course I am,” Wax said. “This is my second marriage. I’m an old hand at the practice by now.” Wayne grinned. “Oh, is that how it works? ’Cuz in my experience, marryin’ is the one thing people seem to get worse at the more they do it. Well, that and bein’ alive.” “Wayne, that was almost profound.” “Damn. I was aimin’ for insightful.”

Standing up, he pulled himself together. He’d healed this wound once. He could do so again. And if that left his heart crusted with scar tissue, then perhaps that was what he needed.

“Gotta grow up sometime, right? I’ve found that … well, a man wantin’ something don’t make it true, you know?”

“What is that song?” she called after him. “I know it.” “‘The Last Breath,’” he said without turning back. “The pianoforte was playin’ it when we first met.”

“Wayne would say it’s because I’m brilliant.” “Wayne has the mental capacity of a fruit fly,” Steris said.

“Robbers?” Steris asked. “Really, Lord Waxillium, must you bring your hobbies with you everywhere we go?”

MeLaan gave him a look. “You shut up,” Wayne said to her. “Didn’t say a word, Wayne.” “You implied one. That’s worse.”