What Moves the Dead (Sworn Soldier, #1)

by T. Kingfisher

I had a strong urge to step back from them, and an even stronger urge to poke them with a stick.

(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.)

Very few ancient crypts have plump shepherdesses and gamboling sheep on the walls. I consider this an oversight.

(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.)

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.

“The Good Lord looks out for fools. In your case, apparently He sends the occasional Englishwoman.” “I thought He’d sent you.” “You’re a two-person job, youngster.”

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