“Madrigal sniffed herself. "I'm almost sure I don't smell." "Maybe not, but between shining cleanliness and not smelling, there is a vast gray area.”

“All right," sighed Madrigal. "To the baths, then. To make ourselves shiningly clean." Like vegetable, she thought, before they go in the stew.”

“That's your evidence? Flimsy. Maybe he secretly fights crime and he's texting infuriating riddles to his nemesis," suggested Karou."Yes, I'm sure that's it. Thank you.”

“That is your legend?" Akiva asked, incredulous. Madrigal had told him the story of the sun and Ellai while they flew. "That seraphim are the blood of a rapist sun?”

“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.”

“She could smell the boy spice beneath the thrift-store aroma of his jacket, and the rubbing and the smell began to work to soften her -- like butter before you add sugar, in the first steps of making something sweet. It was her first experience of how bodies could meld together, how breath could slip naturally into rhythm. It was hypnotic. Heady. And she wanted more.”

“—Tú no eres tonta, Madrigal —dijo Brimstone—. Si hay algo que deseas, persíguelo. La esperanza tiene poder. No la malgastes en cosas sin sentido.”