What Moves the Dead (Sworn Soldier, #1)

by T. Kingfisher

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

Sometimes it’s hard to know if someone is insulting or just an American.

Now I’d moved to some other state entirely. Transcendent exhaustion, perhaps.

Lovely is not the word I would have used to describe it. In need of fire and holy water, perhaps. Could you even burn a lake? I know there was a river in America that caught fire once, and had made the papers as an amusing footnote about how the Yanks could even make water burn, but I vaguely recalled there had been some kind of chemicals involved.

Hob greeted me more eagerly than usual, possibly because Denton’s horse in the next stall was a terrible conversationalist,

(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.)

We cannot habeas the corpus.