“As much as Sajida once loved him, she thought it unjust that her daughter, forsaken by her father, should have any physical likeness to him at all.”

“Noor was Sajida's secret. She knew the exact moment her child was conceived. Purple passed slowly, the lowest of clouds, over her eyes. Bathed in such magnificent color, Sajida lay perfectly still. Much later, she would try to relive the exact moment, as if she needed to understand how the fact of her child could have entered her body and mind at the same time. But Sajida would not summon the gentle shade ever again.”

“He was reminded of what he liked about Irene so much; that she had not written her war away, she claimed it as her own again and again--near the chichra tree in Five Queen's Road and along the cobbled sidewalk opposite a canal in Maastricht and who knows how many more times in the privacy of her own thoughts.”

“It wasn't only our country they occupied," Irene explained to Amir Shah. "They occupied our minds.”

“Should she slam his head into the bar or toss her beer on him? Damn shame to waste good beer.”

“Oh heaven and hell, stop with the tears. Given the day Sarah had just had, the tears were logical. But watching her face crumple, hearing the gut-deep harsh sobs, filled Rukh with an irrational need to pull her into his arms, wrap her in a hug.As soon as the urge had gelled into conscious thought, his essence hardened into visibility and his arms slid up around her shivering, wet body.Sarah’s eyes popped open and she staggered back with a yell.His arms tightened around her, steadying her, keeping her close. Well, shit. At least, she’d stoppedcrying.Fear-bright green eyes stared at him instead.Given he was an assassin, sent to kill her, her response was natural, even intelligent. Yet, bitterness churned in his gut at the thought of her fearing him. “It’s okay,” he whispered. “You’re safe.”“Am I hallucinating?” Her question came out as a croak.“Yes, yes you are.” That seemed a much better answer than the truth.She pinned him with her dark, direct gaze. “You’re just a figment of my imagination. A fantasy?”“Yes.” He didn’t dare move.“Then why are you still wearing clothes?”

“I have a pesky little critic in the back of my mind. He's a permanent fixture and passes judgment on everything I write.In order to placate him, especially when I'm endeavoring to write anything as ambitious as a novel, I have to constantly mutter, 'I'm not writing a masterpiece, I'm not writing a masterpiece.'This mantra lulls him into a kind of stupor so that he pays no attention to what I'm doing, because after all, I'm not claiming it's any good. Slowly, and secretly, one page at a time, I write my story.I know I've succeeded when he grudgingly admits, 'That's pretty good.' And if I'm lucky, every once in a while, I blow him away.”