“As I closed the door I caught a last glimpse of her through the round window, still sitting straight-backed and motionless with her hands folded in her lap: a queen in a fairy tale, left alone in her tower to mourn her lost, witch-stolen princess.”

“Outside I saw her sitting in the wheelchair, hands folded on her lap, and I knew I was living the moment that says nothing, that will allow nothing said of consequence.”

“...which fairy-tale princess ever chose her maid over her prince?”

“You remind me of a fairy tale princess. You’re so kind.”“Did you not see me smash that guy’s phone? I never saw Cinderella attack a lisping dude.” Livia closed one eye while reliving her actions.“No, I guess not. You’re my kind of princess, then.” Blake ran his hands through her hair.”

“There was a small wooden gazebo built out over the water; Isabelle was sitting in it, staring out across the lake. She looked like a princess in a fairy tale, waiting at the top of her tower for someone to ride up and rescue her. Not that traditional princess behavior was like Isabelle at all. Isabelle with her whip and boots and knives would chop anyone who tried to pen her up in a tower into pieces, build a bridge out of the remains, and walk carelessly to freedom, her hair looking fabulous the entire time.”

“She learned her hands in a fairy-tale,And her mouth on a valentine.”