“See, Quentin, that’s why you should wear a cup before trying to assassinate someone.”

“He's going to be okay," said Quentin. "He has to. He's Tybalt. You'd be all weird and irritating if he wasn't around." "Weird and irritating?" I raised an eyebrow. "What gives you that idea?" Quentin shrugged. "That's already how you get when he isn't around.”

“A proper lady should be able to smile pretty, wear sequins like she means it, and kick a man's ass nine ways from Sunday while wearing stiletto heels. If she can't do that much, she's not trying hard enough. —Francis Brown”

“It was May’s idea,” Quentin added.“I’m sure it was,” I said. Sylvester started circling. I dropped into a defensive position. “I’m not really comfortable with this, May.”“Cope,” she said.“Maybe an audience will make you shape up,” Sylvester said, and lunged.I parried. “Maybe an audience will distract me and get me gutted.”“Let’s see some carnage!” hollered May, pumping her fist in the air.“This isn’t professional wrestling!” I snapped, trying to hit Sylvester’s ankle. He blocked, turning my thrust aside and nearly disarming me. “And I swear if you shout ‘take it off,’ I am coming over there.”“Take what off?” asked Sylvester.“Nothing, Your Grace,” Quentin and I said in unison.”

“April frowned, irritation evident. “I did not consent to your presence,” she said peevishly. “Please depart, and attempt your political assassination on someone else’s property.”

“It’s lovely,” I said, taking an involuntary half step back. “Really, though. I don’t like to handle other people’s cookware.” “That’s the best you can manage? That’s your bright, bold lie?” “Look, lady, I don’t know about you, but I’ve never had somebody corner me on a dark street and try to hand me a frying pan before,” I snapped.”

“Being a King sort of sucks," I said. Quentin wrinkled his nose, "So does your outfit." "Blood is in this season.”