“Andromache: See, I've stopped crying. I won't cry ever again, I promise you.Helen: Don't promise that. Never promise that. Tears are good sometimes. They clear the heart of sorrow. Cry.”

“You're wicked - nothing but a wicked woman! The scrawniest cat in the stable looks after her young better than you. Why don't you think of him? He's little . . . What does he know of the world and of death? What's he thinking while you're lying hrere like a statue, weeping and wailing? Anyone would think you were the first widow in the history of the world and that no one had ever lost a husband before. Well, you aren't. What you are is selfish and lazy, and if Hector can see you from the Elysian Fields, he'll be in torment at the way you're treating his child. His child. The moment he's dead, the moment he's no longer here, you change completely. Where's the old Andromache? I know it's not my place, but you've been the only mother I ever knew, and how do you think I feel, when you push me away and won't talk to me, and won't listen, and won't let me hold you when you cry? I feel useless and stupid and I wish I could leave this sad place and go back to the Blood Room. There at least they have the kind of wounds I know how to do something about . . .”

“Danae and Theano nodded but settled down more comfortably to hear their friend tell it once again. A story passed the time. A story took your thoughs far awar from your own troubles. A story could make you laugh or cry. it could fill you with wonder. And the stories you'd heard already were the best of all, because you knew there would be no disappointment at the end. There would be no unpleasant surprises. Of course, new stories that no one had told before were truly best of all, but they were rare, and hearing one for the first time was like coming across a scarlet flower you didn't recognise hidden in a crevice in the rocks.”

“Theano: Always expecting the worst, you are.Danae: If you expect terrible things, then they don't surprise you, and all good things are like wonderful gifts.”

“More than the choking heat, more than the blinding flames that rise up into the night sky, more than the endlessly leaping colours that change shape with every moment, more than all of these is the transforming power of fire. Fire takes solid wooden beams and reduces them to charcoal. It licks at everything with a scarlet tongue and leaves it black. It spreads like the folds of a golden robe over human bodies and what is left is gray and chalky: ash, blown up and up by every breath of wind only to fall like dust on the ground. When it is burning most fiercely, it seems that it might go on forever and devour everything in its path. It does not cower and withdraw in front of princes. Palace and hovel alike are good fuel and nothing more. It is unstoppable. And when it has moved, what remains is desolation.”

“You can't ask questions like that. Everything has to be done in the right order, or the whole narrative falls to pieces. One thing has to follow another. You can't skip over anything or move things along faster. One step at a time.”

“You could tell a horse everything, and it wouldn't judge you or condemn you or think you stupid. A horse had no opinion at all about the way you looked.”