A Sorceress Comes to Call

by T. Kingfisher

The knowledge that she was alone and no one could see her—that she could do anything, say anything, think anything and no one would be the wiser—made her feel fierce and wicked and brave.

Like many men not overly encumbered by intelligence, he had a great deal of cunning in avoiding personal unpleasantness.

One of the advantages of age was that you could think a great deal while simply sitting still, and no one would poke you and demand that you go and do something useful.

She looks like a horse that’s been beaten so often that it doesn’t know what is expected of it any longer. And who doesn’t expect that to ever change.

Hester was no hero, but there was nothing in her that would allow her to turn away from a person who had been dropped on her doorstep. Even if that person had brought Doom along with her.

It was a strange reflection that, like Hester turning the cuffs on her gowns, you were somehow allowed to be poorer if you were rich than if you were actually poor.

“Beautiful women have an easier time of it, at least while they’re young and beautiful. The rest of us must develop style. It’s not so easy as beauty, but it lasts longer, and it’s less brittle.”

sometimes it didn’t matter if you broke. You kept going. You weren’t given a choice.

“I go to confession whenever the guilt gets to be too much.” “And how often is that?” “It hasn’t happened yet, but you never know.

“Madam.” He frowned at her. “I am a butler. Do you truly believe that I do not know how to dispatch a houseguest if required?”