“You'll take her to a healer, prince, or so help me I will cut out that piece of ice you call a heart and take her myself.”

“I want to cut off her head and take out her heart.”

“You touch her, and I will take that dagger at your side and cut your heart out with it. (Julian)”

“I thought you were her knight, but you have become only her woodsman--taking little girls into the forest to cut out their hearts.”

“So why haven’t you called?” I ask her now.She looks uncomfortable. “I told you,” she says, twirling the end of her braid around her finger. “School stuff.”“Bullshit.” She looks at me and opens her mouth, probably to lie again. But then she changes her mind. “I didn’t know what to say.” Her voice catches, so I know she’s telling the truth. “And besides, you didn’t call me, either.” “Because you didn’t call me!” Doesn’t she know that the person who got kicked out of school (me) doesn’t have to call the one who didn’t(her)? She should have called to check up on me, to see how I was doing. She should have come over with lemonades and ice cream, keeping me company, helping me nurse my broken heart. That’s what best friends do. It’s so common it’s cliché.”

“I can’t help but wonder if I could get away with stabbing her cold, cold heart with an ice pick.For that, I might win the Nobel Peace Prize. Or, bare minimum, a call from the Vatican, thanking me.”