Harrow the Ninth (The Locked Tomb, #2)

by Tamsyn Muir

You look like a bat stuck in a birthday cake

“Your indefatigability in the face of ancient death becomes you.” “Stop flirting with my wife,” said Magnus.

“I have always admired your facility for repartee, my lady. Oftentimes someone will say something to me, and later I will think up the perfect riposte—so perfect the hearer could not help but wilt, and be ashamed that they had set themselves up to receive it—but by that point it is often hours after the fact and I am lying in my bed. And in any case, I hate conflict, all kinds.”

What fitting epitaph for your fragile bones? (Perhaps: Here lies the world’s most insufferable witch.)

“It is a drawing of the letter S,” said the deep, solemn voice from over her shoulder, and she realized she had stopped midstride. “The letter in question is constructed from six short marks stacked vertically three by three. There are two triangles on the top and bottom, which, along with some diagonal strokes, form a calligraphic S.”

It takes a great deal of ego to be a psychopomp. Thank you for letting me be yours.

“She wants the D,” I said. And: “The D stands for dead.” And: “Sorry.”