What Moves the Dead (Sworn Soldier, #1)

by T. Kingfisher

It is a cliché to say that a building’s windows look like eyes because humans will find faces in anything and of course the windows would be the eyes.

(Look, if you don’t make a fool of yourself over animals, at least in private, you aren’t to be trusted. That was one of my father’s maxims, and it’s never failed me yet.)

I offered Denton my hand, because Americans will shake hands with the table if you don’t stop them.

When she stood against the sun, I half expected to see light stream through her like a stained-glass window, with a frame of bones instead of lead.

“I do not think you are mad at all,” I said, which was true. “I enjoy the passions of others vicariously.

His voice had that light veneer of humor that we all get, because if we don’t pretend we’re laughing, we might have to admit just how broken we are.

Denton was even more American than usual. If his accent got any broader, he was going to start singing “The Star-Spangled Banner” and shaking hands with the tablecloth.

It is very unpleasant to sit down to a meal when you are trying to determine which one of your breakfast companions is a murderer.