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359 pages, Paperback
First published November 28, 2020
Margo put her head in her hands, hunched over in absolute misery and despair. Pippa braced protectively over her and began to rub her back a little, which only further cemented Margo's determination to never cheer up.
They thought to train us for war as men, but they were really training us to live in the world as women.
“Dominica,” I said, because we were alone. “Do you know...”
She stared at me as if I were another gilded saucer, and I heroically managed not to whimper please step on me.
She knows she's in trouble. I can tell by the way she's suddenly making shiny megakitten eyes at me, like she can get me to ignore what just happened by being unutterably adorable. It's a delicate moment for our relationship, and definitely requires a touch of diplomacy. Fortunately, diplomacy is my specialty. "Fuck you," I tell her, "and fuck your Plan Z."
"It seems fragile," the golden-haired woman said. "Are you not afraid?"
Aiyla almost lied - as she usually did - but the woman looked at her with such grave interest in her green eyes. "Every time," she admitted.
She saw Humans pushing luggage trolleys, drinking decorative coffees, and consoling their jet-lagged children. Not a pitchfork in sight. Humans, it seemed were entirely modern and civilized. Mother was wrong. A delightful thought.
I awaken in pain, knowing I am in the wrong underworld.
...to rekindle the spark of what they'd had, once, to see if they could be more than occasional lovers. Lammeët loved danger and Kuolma loved Lammeët. This cave was what they both needed.
The first thing she noticed after she'd passed through the high, iron gates of Tremontaine House, spiked with gilded, wrought-iron flowers, was the cakes: tables of pastries, beautifully arranged on platters everywhere you looked. The nobles were ignoring them in favor of flirtation, conversation, and alcohol. What was wrong with these people?
"This is the last critter we're bringing home for a while." Thunking the face masks down on my work table, I rummaged in a cabinet for air tanks. "Also, new house rule. If it's scaly and more than moderately poisonous, venomous, whatever, it has to stay off the furniture."
"Honey, you need to be less obvious. Look at me. And I hate to say this, but... smile?"
Clara shot her an arch look.
It's a voice used to unquestioning obedience; if she resents past indignities at Élan's hands, the feeling has been buried in impeccable etiquette. So Élan sings.
The dress's rich magenta, in honor of their House flower, pleased Anjen, and its white-and-gold embroidery was in the pattern known as fractal cunning. In better times she would have worn a coronet of azaleas, of silk if not the flesh of flowers, but the House no longer owned the former, and no one grew azaleas anymore in the City's treasured gardens. (...) Her keen eyes had spotted a frayed thread near the collar, but she owned a scarf of blushing silk and pale quantum lace that would cover the blemish.
Commander Sora Larking stood tall in her blue uniform jacket on the Hardweather's quarterdeck. Her cocked hat was tucked under her arm, and the wind tousled her short sweep of dark hair.
"Your infuriating and labyrinthine sssystem ssserves a kingdom I owe naught!"
"Actually, you used the kingdom's highways during your zombie invasion, you use the services of the kingdom's coast guard to keep this island safe from pirates and marauders, and the kingdom's mail service comes out every week - which you used to send in your faulty tax filing."
"Ladies used to put bronze edges on their fans, you know? As a defense against anyone who got too intimate."
(...)
"You don't have a fan."
"Do I need one?" Astrid said.
Nik smiled. "That entirely depends on your definition of too intimate."
"Katherine fed her cake after sweet cake. Bec ever after associated the taste of anise with the taste of Katherine's skin, the chocolate crushed in her fragrant armpit, the raspberry dipped in her navel.”Chocolate armpit. I'm dead. -_-