“Mo could paint pictures in the empty air with his voice alone.”

“So Mo began filling the silence with words. He lured them out of the pages as if they had only been waiting for his voice, words long and short, words sharp and soft, cooing, purring words. They danced through the room, painting stained glass pictures, tickling the skin. Even when Meggie nodded off she could still hear them, although Mo had closed the book long ago. Words that explained the world to her, its dark side and its light side, words that built a wall to keep out bad dreams. And not a single bad dream came over that wall for the rest of the night.”

“Who are you?' Mo looked at the White Women. Then he looked at Dustfinger's still face.Guess.' The bird ruffled up its golden feathers, and Mo saw that the mark on its breast was blood.You are Death.' Mo felt the word heavy on his tongue. Could any word be heavier?”

“Yes, Mo would come. Meggie could think of nothing else as Fenoglio led her away with him, his arm around her as if he could really protect her from Capricorn and Basta and all the others. But he couldn't. Would Mo be able to protect her? Of course not. He mustn't come, she thought. Please. Perhaps he won't be able to find his way in again! He mustn't come. Yet there was nothing she wanted more, nothing in the whole wide world.”

“Killing is easy," said Mo, "Dying is harder...”

“As Mo had said: writing stories is a kind of magic, too.”

“Because fear kills everything," Mo had once told her. "Your mind, your heart, your imagination.”