“In other words, my pot doesn't work?""It doesn't have a pulse," he says."I have a pulse." Kimmie offers her wrist. "Wanna check?”

“He grabbed the count's hand to check his pulse, and I held my breath. The count wouldn't have a pulse. Or a heartbeat. Or a breath.”

“Sean reaches out between us and takes my wrist. He press his thumb on my pulse. My heartbeat trips and surges against his skin. I'm pinned by his touch, a sort of fearful magic. We stand and stand, and I wait for my pulse against his finger to slow, but it doesn't Finally, he releases my wrist and says," I'll see you on the cliffs tomorrow.”

“If I'm not learning, check my pulse!”

“Why is it every other person you meet says they're an artist? A real artist doesn't need to gas on about it, he doesn't have time. He does his work and sweats it out in silence, and no one can help him at all.”

“When someone says, “One last thing,” it never is. Unless they die right after speaking. Make sure that they do. 
Check their pulse to be certain.”