What Moves the Dead (Sworn Soldier, #1)

by T. Kingfisher

She was, as my mother would say, “a woman of a certain age.” In this case, that age was about sixty.

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

“Soldier’s heart, we called it after the war. I once had a bit of an episode because they had lined the street with flags, and the wind came up and they were all snapping … the sound wasn’t like cannon fire at all, but it still was, you know?” I nodded. I did indeed know. “Then one of the flags came loose and it blew toward me.” He snorted. “Found myself down a stairwell two streets over.” 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. It’s like telling stories at the bar about the worst pain you’ve ever been in. You laugh and you brag about it, and it turns the pain into something that will buy you a drink.

One of the few things I learned from the Brits who served with me was that if you’re feeling dreadful, it helps to dress well.