The Name of the Wind (The Kingkiller Chronicle, #1)

by Patrick Rothfuss

When I came out of the wagon, he had her in a dramatic dip and was giving her a kiss. I set the needle and thread next to my shirt and waited. It seemed like a good kiss. I watched with a calculating eye, dimly aware that at some point in the future I might want to kiss a lady. If I did, I wanted to do a decent job of it. After a moment my father noticed me and stood my mother back on her feet. “That will be ha’penny for the show, Master Voyeur,” he laughed. “What are you still here for, boy? I’ll bet you the same ha’penny that a question slowed you down.” “Why do we stop for the greystones?” “Tradition, my boy,” he said grandly, throwing his arms wide. “And superstition. They are one and the same, anyway. We stop for good luck and because everyone enjoys an unexpected holiday.” He paused. “I used to know a bit of poem about them. How did it go . . . ? “Like a drawstone even in our sleep Standing stone by old road is the way To lead you ever deeper into Fae. Laystone as you lay in hill or dell Greystone leads to something something ‘ell.’”