“Jael returned the lazy smile. "You're not my type.""Well, you're not anybody's type," said Hazael. "No, wait. I take it back. My sword says she'd like to know you better.”

“As long as you're alive, there's always a chance things will get better.""Or worse," said Liraz."Yes," he conceded. "Usually worse."Hazael cut in. "My sister, Sunshine, and my brother, Light. You two should rally the ranks. You'll have us killing ourselves by morning.”

“But Hazael only said, "I brought you a present."Liraz took the flower, looked at it, and then a Hazael, expressionless. And then she ate it. She chewed the flower and swallowed it."Hmm," said Hazael. "Not the usual response.""Oh, do you give flowers often?""Yes," he said. He probably did. Hazael had a way of enjoying life in spite of the many restrictions they lived under, being soldiers, and worse, being Misbegotten. "I hope it wasn't poisonous," he said lightly.Liraz just shrugged. "There are worse ways to die.”

“So," he called to her back, "Just out of curiosity, you know, purely conversation and all, at what age will you be entertaining offers of marriage?""You think it'll be so easy?" she called back over her shoulder. "No way. There will be tasks. Like in a fairy tale.""Sounds dangerous.""Very, so think twice.""No need," he said. "You're worth it.”

“I know it's not easy for you, living this life, but try to remember, always try to remember, you're not the only one with troubles.”

“I might try that one thing, you know, that thing people do when their eyes get all wet and stupid—what’s it called? Crying?Or NOT. I might PUNCH you instead and trust that you won’t punch me back because of my endearing smallness. It would be like punching a child.”

“This gown, is it cut from shadow?" the general asked. "I can barely feel it between my fingers."Not for want of trying, thought Madrigal."Perhaps it is a reflection of the night sky," he suggested, "skimmed from a pond?"She supposed that he was being poetic. erotic, even. In return, as unerotically as possible- more like complaining of a stain that wouldn't come out-she said, "Yes, my lord. I went for a dip, and the reflection clung.”