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Despite being the High Queen of Elfhame, with an army at her disposal and dozens of Courts at her command, she still acted as though she’d have to handle every problem herself—and that each one would best be solved through murder.
He winked at Oak, and Oak smiled in return despite his intention to remain serious.
If one of them asked for the sun, he’d better figure out how to pluck it from the sky without getting burned.
“I didn’t enjoy being a snake, and yet I appear to be doomed to be reminded of it for all eternity,” Cardan was saying, black curls falling across his face. He held a three-pronged fork aloft, as though to emphasize his point. “The excess of songs hasn’t helped, nor has their longevity. It’s been what? Eight years? Nine? Truly, the celebratory air about the whole business has been excessive. You’d think I never did a more popular thing than sit in the dark on a throne and bite people who annoyed me. I could have always done that. I could do that now.”
“Well, come on,” says Hyacinthe. “Unless you want me to carry you.” “Carry me? What a delightful offer. You can bear me in your arms like a maiden in a fairy tale.” Hyacinthe rolls his eyes. “I can throw you over my shoulder like a sack of grain.” “Then I suppose I shall walk,” Oak says,
I need no protestations of your feelings. Love can be lost, and I am done with losing.”
They must all know Wren killed the last guard who put a finger on him.
He smiles up at her. “She’s accepted my ring. And so, I would be delighted to tell you that Wren and I are to be wed.”
“Are you certain about accepting the young prince’s proposal? He can be something of a fool.” Her lips twitch. Randalin draws in a shocked breath. Oak gives the Ghost a speaking look. “The question is whether she will have me be her fool.” Wren smiles. “I’m certain.”
He looks at his little finger, bare now, and smiles up at the ice ceiling.
He puts a hand to his chest. “Have you no feelings to drown?” Wren looks down. “No,” she says. “Nothing I have would I ever want to give away.”
she would murder Wren herself if she thought Wren’s death would shield people she cares about. Jude wouldn’t need to dislike her to do it.
Cardan is lying on the bed, bandaged and sulking, in a magnificent dressing gown. “I hate being unwell,” he says. “You’re not sick,” Jude tells him. “You are recovering from being stabbed—or rather, throwing yourself on a knife.” “You would have done the same for me,” he says airily. “I would not,” Jude snaps. “Liar,” Cardan says fondly.
Jude looks surprised but then shrugs. “I’ll be outside, yelling at people.” “Try not to enjoy it too greatly,” says Cardan as she goes out.
