“This anger is not a feeling. It is …” She hesitated, frowning prettily. “It is a desire. It is a making. It is a wanting of life.” Penthe looked around, then focused on the grass around us. “Anger is what makes the grass press up through the ground to reach the sun,” she said. “All things that live have anger. It is the fire in them that makes them want to move and grow and do and make.”
