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Oh, Lady Maccon, I am unreservedly in love with her. That black hair, that sweet disposition, those capital hats.

Gail Carriger

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Gail Carriger
Age: 48
Born: 1976
Born: May 4
Archaeologist
Novelist
Science Fiction Writer
Writer
Bolinas
California
Hats
Capital
Lady
Sweet
Hair
Black
Love
Unreservedly
Disposition

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These feelings you engender in me, my lord, are most indelicate. You should stop causing them immediately.
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Sophronia was minding her own business and running late to luncheon, as was her custom. She'd let to learn the advantage of punctuality. As she told Sister Mattie the third time she was late to household potions and poisons, nothing interesting happened until after an event commenced.
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Alphas simply did not grovel arrogance was part of the job description.
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These things, regrettably, are bound to occur when one is married and befriended.
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I am rather fond of ladybugs. They are so delightfully hemispherical.
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She had to give her teachers credit: they were right to insist all pupils carry scissors, handkerchiefs, perfume and hair ribbons at all times. At some point she'd learn why they also required a red lace doily and a lemon.
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Hello, princess,” said Lord Maccon to the vampire. “Got yourself into quite a pickle this time, didn't you?” Lord Akeldama looked him up and down. “My sweet young naked boy, you are hardly one to talk. Not that I mind, of course.
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But I don't want to be a vampire drone.' Sophronia winced. 'They'll suck my blood and make me wear only the very latest fashions.
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Very well, Lord Maccon. If we are going to play this particular hand, would you be interested in becoming my...” “Mistress?
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Uh, my lord, I am not actually food. You do realize this, yes?
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Miss Tarabotti was not one of life's milk-water misses--in fact, quite the opposite. Many a gentleman had likened his first meeting with her to downing a very strong cognac when one was expecting to imbibe fruit juice--that is to say, startling and apt to leave one with a distinct burning sensation.
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He dinna act like an Alpha. He does in some areas.
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She was no closer to determining who might want her dead. There were just too many possibilities.
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Ah, Ivy, thought Alexia happily, spreading a verbal fog wherever she goes.
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A vampire, like a lady, never reveals his true age.
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The bowl landed, in glorious perfection, atop the head of Mrs Barnaclegoose, who was not the kind of woman to appreciate the finer points of being crowned by trifle.
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Captain Niall, having apparently resigned himself to losing his quarry, was savaging her horsehair petticoat into teeny, tiny shreds. Really, what did my poor petticoat do to offend?
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Lyall had spent centuries nibbling about the great layered cake that was polite society while Lord Akeldama acted the part of the frosting on its top.
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Alexia,” she hissed to her friend, “there are knees positively everywhere. What do I do?
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