“To choose a good book, look in an inquisitor’s prohibited list.”

“To choose a good book, look in an inquisitor’s prohibited list.”

“Fearghus entered what he now considered her chamber, but immediately ducked the book flung at his head. Clearly she’d been waiting for him. And she was not happy.“He’s the one supposed to be helping me,” she roared at him.“Did you just throw a book at me? In my own den?”“Yes. And I’d throw it again!”Fearghus scratched his head in confusion. He’d never met a human brave enough—or stupid enough, depending on your point of view—to challenge him. “But,” he croaked out, amazed, “I’m a dragon.”“And I have tits. It means nothing to me!”

“Don’t worry about people stealing your ideas. If your ideas are any good, you’ll have to ram them down people’s throats.”

“Gods, Annwyl. What’s wrong?” Morfyd demanded.Green eyes turned to them and Annwyl sneered, “Nothing. I just wanted the two of you to shut up. You’re going to make us look bad in front of the barbarian!”

“Gwenvael looked down at his body. Horrified, he sat up. “What is this? What’s happened to me?”“Calm down. It’ll heal quick enough, I’m sure.”“Heal? I’m hideous!”“You’re alive.”“Hideously alive!” He covered her face with his hands. “Don’t look at me! Look away!”“Stop it!” She pulled at his hands. “Have you lost your mind?”Gwenvael dropped back to the bed, turned his face toward the wall. “You know what this means, don’t you?”“Gwenvael—”“I’ll have to live alone, at the top of a castle somewhere. I’ll hide from the daylight and only come out at night.”“Please stop this.”“I’ll be alone but not for long because you’ll all want me more. You’ll lust for the beautiful warrior I once was and pity the hideous creature I’ve become. Most importantly, you’ll want to soothe my pain.” He looked at her again. “Don’t you want to soothe my pain? Right now? Without that dress on?”“No. I do not.”Dagmar tried to stand, and Gwenvael caught her hand, pulling her back down. “You can’t leave me. I’m tortured and brooding. You need to show me how much you adore me so I can learn to love myself again.”“You’ve never stopped loving yourself.”“Because I’m amazing.”

“The use of reading, Gibbon says somewhere, is to aid us in thinking. I have always disagreed with Gibbon over that; he may have used literature to help him think, but for me, often, and for most of the human race I reckon (since I have no reason to think myself unique) books can be a mind-stupefying drug, employed to banish thought, not to invoke it. When I am unhappy I can sink into a novel as into unconsciousness. Blessed War and Peace, thrice blessed Mansfield Park; how many potential suicides have their pages distracted and soothed and entertained past the danger point?”