The Aeronaut's Windlass (The Cinder Spires, #1)

by Jim Butcher

It did not matter how delicious the food tasted—burning one’s tongue was an undignified experience and he did not intend to repeat it.

Grimm strode toward the Spirearch’s Manor, his booted steps striking the stone floor with sharp, clear impacts, and reminded himself that murdering the idiot beside him in an abrupt surge of joyous violence would be in extremely bad taste.

Extremely bad taste, Grimm thought. Appallingly bad taste. Historically bad taste. No matter how joyous.

It felt clumsy and wrong, like trying to sing with a mouthful of breakfast.

Such hats often signified humans who considered themselves important, which was adorable for the first few moments and trying ever after.

It was a well-known fact that humans became more addled than usual when running in herds.

“Death is light as a feather, duty as heavy as a Spire, what?”

As deaths went, Bridget thought, being asphyxiated by warm, soft, furry little beasts seemed a bit less ghastly than some she had considered lately, but nonetheless she preferred to avoid it.

“In my experience, the worst madmen don’t seem odd at all,” Grimm said. “They appear to be quite calm and rational, in fact. Until the screaming starts.”

“It’s a tradition,” Grimm said. “Were traditions rational, they’d be procedures.”