“Is this your parents’ fire?” he asked with a terrible delight in his voice. I nodded numbly. His smile slowly faded. Expressionless, he looked deep into me. His voice was quiet, cold, and sharp. “Someone’s parents,” he said, “have been singing entirely the wrong sort of songs.” “Cinder.” A cool voice came from the direction of the fire. His black eyes narrowed in irritation. “What?” he hissed. “You are approaching my displeasure. This one has done nothing. Send him to the soft and painless blanket of his sleep.” The cool voice caught slightly on the last word, as if it were difficult to say.
