“Daemon spoke in his language. The lyrical quality of his words made no sense to me.“What did you say?” I asked.“There’s really no translation for it,” he said, “but the closest human words would be, you are beautiful to me.”

“But still, here are the words Despereaux Tilling spoke to his father. He said, "I forgive you, Pa!" And he said those words because he sensed that it was the only way to save his heart, to stop it from breaking in two. Despereaux, reader, spoke those words to save himself.”

“You had to translate his actions, for they were seldom accompanied by words, because his world was a quiet world; a disconnected, factured space; a puzzle that made him phone me at 3am, asking me for the last piece of the border, so he could fill in the sky.”

“He felt that now over his every word, his every deed, there was a judge, a judgment, which was dearer to him than the judgments of all the people in the world. He spoke now, and along with his words he considered the impression his words would make on Natasha. He did not deliberately say what would be please her, but whatever he said, he judged himself from her point of view.”

“He was never a man of many words but the look that he gave me spoke volumes saying what he felt in his heart”

“Sure. Whatever. She’s all yours.”Daemon grinned. “That she is.”My hand was twitching to connect with his face. “I am not yours.” A small part of me wanted his to deny my words, though.“Shush it,” he said, walking up to me.“How about I shush it right up you—““Kitten, your language is so unladylike.”