“Joscelin, is love supposed to make you feel like you’re sick and dying, and mad enough to hit someone and drunk with joy, and your heart’s a boulder n your chest trying to burst into a thousand pieces all at once?” “Mm-hmm.” He finished his ale. “That would be love.”

“By morning, Joscelin was resigned. "You know, betimes I think you are a little mad, Imriel no Montreve," he said to me in the courtyard outside the stable, holding the Bastard's reins."You never said that to Phedre," I reminded him."Ah, well." He grinned despite himself. "In her case, there is no question.”

“To my surprise, Joscelin rose. ‘Phedre-’ He began, then halted. Sitting below him, I watched him smile to himself, quiet and private. ‘Phedre yields with a willow’s grace,’ he said softly. ‘And endures with the strength of mountains. Without her, life would be calm; and yet lack all meaning.”

“Love child!" What else? You will find it and lose it, again and again. And with each finding and each loss, you will become more than before. What you make of it is yours to choose.”

“I wondered if he could ever understand that it was a blessing, not a sin, to be graced with more than one love.It could be complicated; of course it could be complicated. And it opened one up to the possibility of more pain and loss.Still, it was a blessing I would never relinquish. Love, genuine love, was always a cause for joy.”

“We are alike, Joscelin and I, in that what we do, we do very well.”

“Avevo Joscelin, il mio Compagno Perfetto, la bussola su cui era fisso il mio cuore.”