“Poor Petey. I’d like to say I could almost feel a tender spot for poor Petey, but the truth is I’d rather feel at the tender spot on his head and give it a poke.”

“Petey," I whisper, his ear maybe an inch away from my mouth. "It...it feels like...wicked like...home when I'm with you. Home”

“I wish I could do whatever I liked behind the curtain of “madness”. Then: I’d arrange flowers, all day long, I’d paint; pain, love and tenderness, I would laugh as much as I feel like at the stupidity of others, and they would all say: “Poor thing, she’s crazy!” (Above all I would laugh at my own stupidity.) I would build my world which while I lived, would be in agreement with all the worlds. The day, or the hour, or the minute that I lived would be mine and everyone else’s - my madness would not be an escape from “reality”.”

“And I have a tender spot in my heart for cripples and bastards and broken things.”

“Why are you showing this to me?”“It’s yours.” Petey snapped his head up to find that the pirate was no longer smiling. “I mean it. It’s yours. I have no use for it. What good is a scepter in paradise?”Setting the scepter down carefully on the table, Petey eyed the pirate with suspicion. “And why would you be wantin’ to give it to me?”“Can’t you guess? I want you to give up your claim to Miss Willis.”

“Poor Cecil. It’s hard to be a devil of a fellow in these modern times. No stagecoaches to hold up. No princesses to rescue. Just Petey Todd to escort, while the easy, expert fellow walks the pretty girl home.”