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“Not to tell you your business,” Sam said, “and I realise this may seem an extreme measure, and very much outside your area of expertise...” “What are you suggesting?” Sam grinned. “Have you considered talking to him?”
People create poetry and mustard gas. We invent gods and monsters and gods that might as well be monsters. We act with extraordinary grace and unfathomable cruelty. We’re so terribly intelligent, and dreadfully easy to fool.
He wanted this to be an invitation, an approach; he hoped or feared it was something far less familiar, for which he longed even more. He wanted it to be kindness.
the painful prospect of hoping again was better than the dull knowledge he never would.
It’s so much easier to obey orders. It’s not much fun to think.”
I should have listened to the Shadow Ministry.” “Are they really called that?” “Department for Special Affairs. I don’t actually think I should have listened to them, needless to say. That was just an outpouring of dismay.
“I don’t need sympathy.” “How would you know? Have you had any?”
“Thursday? What the hell happened to Wednesday?”
Perhaps he had imagined being in fairyland, but what if he were in fairyland, imagining being home?
It was a beautiful day, the endless Fenland sky early-summer blue. It would have been a lovely day for a walk, if Saul had ever again intended to go for a walk in this countryside without carrying weapons.
He spoke with studied calm, as though they were discussing a game of cards, not hot skin and clutching fingers. Randolph knew the armour well: a casual pose and a light voice, making everything sound trivial. It wouldn’t do to show yearning, to reveal weakness, to embarrass anyone. Randolph knew it because it was his own armour, deflecting all feeling, leaving him protected and alone.
“I want...” “So do I. Do it.” “I didn’t say what.” “I don’t care.”
I’d like to touch them, unless you’d rather I didn’t.” “Do you have a particular fondness for scars?” “They’re part of you.”
you’re very much my type,” Saul said. “If supercilious, cryptic, and devastatingly attractive is a type.” “I hope it is.”
“You’re doing awfully well, old chap,” Saul assured him. “Oh, sod you. Devastatingly attractive, was that?” “Utterly.” “Well, that makes two of us.” He took Saul’s hand and raised it to his lips, brushing a kiss over the fingertips. “In addition to which you are courageous, intriguing, and quite remarkably tolerable.” “I think you mean tolerant.” “I mean both, and that doesn’t make two of us.
