More on this book
Community
Kindle Notes & Highlights
“It’s George Foster. Well, there’s a turn-up.” “Is he quite poorly?” Crispin asked, with a thread of panic. “None too chipper. We were going to bury him tomorrow.” “Oh, fuck,” Crispin said, and fell off the windowsill.
“Ned, why are you helping me? I’m a warlock. The justiciary will be after me, and you really don’t want to get on their wrong side, and none of this is anything to do with you. You shouldn’t be doing this.” It hadn’t even occurred to Ned that he might walk away from this muddle, or from Crispin. “What, and stick you with all this on your own?” “Well…” Crispin looked bewildered. “Why not?” Because you shook my hand. Because you need someone to help you, and I don’t see anyone else lining up. Because those freckles are killing me.
