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The city was a song that crooned unceasingly in my ear, and if my mind was a compass, Sevastyan’s face was true north.
Magic was always like that: it had ugly undersides. Wanting anything was a trap.
I think this is my favorite story because everything goes right, when it’s all said and done. And it’s not such a bad thing to be a bird, if you can find someone to kiss you back into a girl.
It’s no fun stamping through old dirty snow. People want to ruin things that are clean and new.
what was a story except a berry you ate over and over again, until your lips and tongue were red and every word you spoke was poison?
