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Gideon suspected that—even though he had not a whit of necromancy in him—the day he died, Crux would keep going anyway out of sheer malice.
Reverend Daughter Harrowhark Nonagesimus had pretty much cornered the market on wearing black and sneering.
Gideon had always known that this would be how she went: gangbanged to death by skeletons.
It was at least mildly hilarious to see Harrow have to heave with all the might of her, like, three muscles.
In Gideon’s mind she looked like an evil stick.
He didn’t look healthy; he looked like a collection of lemons in a sack.
You couldn’t spend any time in the Ninth House without coming away with an unwholesome knowledge of skeletons.
He had the eyes of a very beautiful person, trapped in resting bitch face.
Her necromancer’s mouth was still puckered up with a sourness that would’ve impressed a lemon,
Gideon rolled her eyes so hard that she felt in danger of twisting the optic nerve.
“You have one black eye already, courtesy of the Seventh House,” said Harrow, “and you seem to yearn for symmetry.”
Gideon longed to say: What the fuck?
But Gideon was experiencing one powerful emotion: being sick of everyone’s shit.
I warn you that I’m in the kind of mood that can only be alleviated by walloping you.”
“What would you do if you discovered Camilla was a murderer?” “Help her bury the body,” said Palamedes promptly.
Gideon’s skin had already been crawling, but now it was trying to sprint.
Gideon looked over her shoulder at her, and caught the Reverend Daughter’s smile. There was blood sweat coming out of her left ear, but her smile was long and sweet and beautiful. Gideon found herself smiling back so hard her mouth hurt.
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