“Death rode out, but found himself guiding the white horse down the track to the orchard. He stopped in front of one particular tree, and stared at it for some time. Eventually he said: LOOKS PERFECTLY LOGICAL TO ME.”

“He rode death's horse by the tips of his fingers and the tips of his toes.”

“He flung himself from the room, flung himself upon his horse and rode madly off in all directions. ”

“If a prince on a white horse actually appeared in front of me...I think I'd like to see him fall off that horse. But..if he wasn't a prince on a white horse to begin with...what would I want then?”

“He seemed to realize she was staring at him, because the cursing stopped. "You cut me," he said. His voice was pleasant. British. Very ordinary. He looked at his hand with critcal interest. "It might be fatal." Tessa looked at him with wide eyes. "Are you the Magister?" He tilted his hand to the side. Blood ran down it, spattering the floor. "Dear me, massive blood loss. Death could be imminent.”

“…like the horse in the old ballads, which Romanticism found in the medieval castle and left in the streets of our own century. The Romanticists rode the poor best until he was so nearly dead that he finally lay down in the gutter, where the realists found him, his flesh eaten away by sores and worms, and, out of pity, carried him away to their books.”