“Every few weeks I get a letter from Léopoldville, which holds me on track. My heart races when I see the long blue envelope in a sister's hand, delivered to me under her sleeve as if a man himself were inside. And, oh, he is! Still sweet and bitter and wise and, best of all, still alive. I squeal, I can't help it, and run outside to the courtyard to taste him in private like a cat with a stolen pullet. I lean my face against the cool wall and kiss its old stones in praise of captivity, because it's only my being here and his being in prison that saves us both for another chance at each other.”

“He cups the back of my neck with his hand and holds the other against my face, rubbing my cheek with his thumb. Slowly, he leans down and kisses me.Soft, then deep.I ooze against the house. I can feel his kiss in my whole body, like warm liquid pouring through me—gold, rich, and melting. After about a minute of what can only be described as sheer ecstasy, Corey rests his forehead against mine so we can both catch our breath. Then he takes my head into his hands and looks at me hard, like his heart is breaking.'I have wanted to do that for so, so long.' I cannot speak. I can only nod yes and hope he knows what I mean. He kisses me more..."... for months and months...""... when you sprayed me with Dr. Pepper...""... at the bakery when you were holding that corned beef...""... and every single time I see you..."I lean against the house and hold on to his wrists so I don't dissolve into a puddle. And I kiss him back. Over and over, I kiss him back.”

“Both of my hands were on his chest. They had a mind of their own. I claimed no responsibility for them.Daemon kissed like he was a man starving for water, taking long, breathless drafts. When his hands slid...under my shirt, it was as though he reached deep inside me, warming every cell, filling evry dark space within me. Touching him, kissing him, was like having a fever all over again. I was on fire. My body burned. The world burned. Sparks flew. Against his mouth, I moaned.”

“What's that?" he snarled, staring at the envelope Harry was still clutching in his hand. "If it's another form for me to sign, you've got another -""It's not," said Harry cheerfully. "It's a letter from my godfather.""Godfather?" sputtered Uncle Vernon. "You haven't got a godfather!""Yes, I have," said Harry brightly. "He was my mum and dad's best friend. He's a convicted murderer, but he's broken out of wizard prison and he's on the run. He likes to keep in touch with me, though...keep up with my news...check if I'm happy....”

“I reach for the napkin, and as I do I catch sight of my hands. They are knobby and crooked, thin-skinned, and—like my ruined face—covered with liver spots.My face. I push the porridge aside and open my vanity mirror. I should know better by now, but somehow I still expect to see myself. Instead, I find an Appalachian apple doll, withered and spotty, with dewlaps and bags and long floppy ears. A few strands of white hair spring absurdly from its spotted skull.I try to brush the hairs flat with my hand and freeze at the sight of my old hand on my old head. I lean close and open my eyes very wide, trying to see beyond the sagging flesh.It's no good. Even when I look straight into the milky blue eyes, I can't find myself anymore. When did I stop being me?”

“More real, more there, like it's just the most incredible thing in the world that we're both still alive and I feel my chest get all funny and tight and I think, Here she is, right here, my Viola, she came for me, she's here-And I find myself thinking how I want to take her hand again and never let it go, to feel the skin of it, the warmth of it, hold it tight against my own hand...”