What Moves the Dead (Sworn Soldier, #1)

by T. Kingfisher

(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.)

So true.

(I am never sure what to think of Americans. Their brashness can be charming, but just when I decide that I rather like them, I meet one that I wish would go back to America, and then perhaps keep going off the far edge, into the sea.)

Haha Americans are the WORST

“Witch-hares?” “Aye. Familiars to devils. You shoot one and the next day you find a witch with a bullet in her heart.”

We love a bit of European folklore

I have, as I have told you, reader, the psychic sensitivities of mud.

Love when they address the reader.

People get hung up on happiness and joy, but fun will take you at least as far and it’s generally cheaper to obtain.

This place breeds nightmares.

(A Frenchwoman once told me that I had no poetry in my soul. I recited a dirty limerick to her, and she threw a lemon at my head. Paris is a marvelous city.)

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.

Damnable English language—more words than anybody can be expected to keep track of, and then they use the same one for about three different things.

“The animal is female,” said Denton dispassionately. And if it were human, would it be diagnosed with hysterical catalepsy? I thought.

Indeed!

Ha, yes, of course the enemy has cannons, why wouldn’t they? Oh, and we’re out of bullets, you say? Ha!