“You’re a peach full of poison, you know that?" Mosca snapped back, but could not quite keep a hint of admiration from her tone.”

“No." Mosca bit her lip and shook her head firmly. Books no longer seemed quite enough. I don’t want a happy ending, I want more story.”

“Mosca had preferred it when she could hear the edge in her companion’s voice. Now she felt like someone who knows that there is a scorpion somewhere in the room but can’t see where it is.”

“He was bellowing a great many words that were new to Mosca and sounded quite interesting. She memorized them for future use.”

“It was hopeless. She was flawless. She was a sunbeam. Mosca gave up and got on with hating her.”

“Mosca and Saracen shared, if not a friendship, at least the solidarity of the generally despised. Mosca assumed that Saracen had his reasons for his persecution of terriers and his possessive love of the malthouse roof. In turn, when Mosca had interrupted Saracen’s self-important nightly patrol and scooped him up, Saracen had assumed that she too had her reasons.”

“Mosca had never tasted power before. It was a little like the feeling the gin had given her, but without the bitterness and the numbness in her nose.”