The Unkindest Tide (October Daye, #13)

by Seanan McGuire

whatever terrifying mischief three boys with noble titles and the anticipation of the weight of the world on their shoulders could get up to. As a rule, I don’t ask, and they don’t tell me. It’s safer that way.

“You could have warned me,” I snapped. She smirked. “Where would have been the fun in that?”

“Ugh.” I pinched the bridge of my nose. “I hate politics.” “If you didn’t, it wouldn’t be nearly as much fun to make you deal with them.”

When you’re as old as I am, when you have as few friends left as I do, there’s something beautiful about just being.

“Foolishness and bravery look a lot alike if you’re not paying close enough attention,”

“There’s no one in this world you can trust all the time. Not even the people you love, not even the people who love you.”

Tybalt raised an eyebrow. “If any of us would know the answer to that, milady, I would expect it to be you. You were, after all, there when it happened.”

“Impressive,” said the Luidaeg wearily. I turned to face her. She shook her head and said, without a trace of sarcasm, “With as much time as we’ve spent together, you still can’t get over thinking of me as a person, and not a salvation dispenser. Most people, when the chips are down, jump straight to telling me what they need and what I should do. It’s a nice change.”