“When he reached the desk he handed Caroline a photograph in a dark blue cardboard frame. It was a portrait, black and white, faintly tinted. The woman looking out wore a pale peach sweater. Her hair was gently waved, her eyes a deep shade of blue. Rupert Dean's wife, Emelda, dead now for twenty years. "She was te love of my life," he announced to Caroline, his voice so loud that people looked up.”

“Kerrigan?" she choked, cupping his face in both of her hands. "Come back to me."Suddenly, he drew a deep breath before he opened his eyes to look up at her. Instead of their normal black hue, they were a bright, crystal blue—the same color they had been when he was human.”

“There was a basket at her feet. She reached into it and lifted out the head of a young woman, a marquise. She wore Bourbon white to her death, but wears the tricolor now - white cheeks, blue lips, red dripping from her neck. Long live the revolution.”

“Hellooo.” I held out my arm. “An amethyst woman with blue hair is telling you this.”She reached out and scraped her short nails over my arm.I snatched my arm back. “Ow.”Not body makeup.” She frowned and peered at the roots of my hair. “A good die-job or you’ve really got blue hair.”For now,” I said. “I’m half Drow.”She raised an eyebrow. Dark Elves.”Uh-huhhhh.”During the day I look normal, like you.”With an amused look she held up her arm, showing her dark, golden skin. “You’re Kenyan and Puerto Rican?”

“Fiona, my love, as much as I adore you, I cannot stand your brothers. Any of them.""Gregor is much nicer now that he's married. Even you must admit that.""Only when Venetia is with him. When she's not, he's as annoying as ever."Fiona's lips quirked into a smile, her green eyes gleaming. "Rather like you, I hear.""Who has been carrying tales?""Everyone." She placed her hand on her husband's cheek and smiled up into his blue eyes. With his dark auburn hair and devastating good looks, "Black Jack" Kincaid had once been the scourge of London's polite society. Now he was her own personal scourge, one she couldn't imagine living without.”

“When Caroline Walker fell in love with Julian English she was a little tired of him. That was in the summer of 1926, one of the most unimportant years in the history of the United States, and the year in which Caroline Walker was sure her life had reached a pinnacle of uselessness.”