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When it turned out that he could, Karou dropped to her knees to genuflect. Gods of math and physics, she intoned, I accept your gift of this clever fair-haired boy

Laini Taylor

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Laini Taylor
Age: 52
Born: 1971
Born: December 11
Author
Novelist
Writer
Chico
California
Fair
Haired
Turned
Dropped
Gift
Knees
Accept
Math
Accepting
Physics
Boys
Clever
Gods
Fairs
Intoned

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She tastes like nectar and salt. Nectar and salt and apples. Pollen and stars and hinges. She tastes like fairy tales. Swan maiden at midnight. Cream on the tip of a fox’s tongue. She tastes like hope.
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It’s not stalking if you don't follow them home, right?
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Where am I and doing what? You might well ask. Freaky chick, you say? You can't imagine. I am priestess of a sandcastle in a land of dust and starlight.
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It didn't escape Karou's notice that he found subtle ways of touching her.
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A pause came between them, and it was so full of Akiva that Karou imagined she could smell him.
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It was brave, countered Issa. It was rare. It was love, and it was beautiful.
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...the air seeming to gather around her like held breath. As if this whole place were a story about her.
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The goblins want girls who dream so hard about being pretty their yearning leaves a palpable trail, a scent goblins can follow like sharks on a soft bloom of blood. The girls with hungry eyes who pray each night to wake up as someone else. Urgent, unkissed, wishful girls. Like Kizzy.
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The thing he wished for most was a thing he had never wished for at all, not until he had discovered her. And it came true that night, and many nights after. A brief and shining span of happiness, it was the pivot point around which his whole life spun.
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I miss sunrise even more. The green scent of dawn in the forest? The color blushing back into the world, different every day.
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Love is a luxury. No. Love is an element. An element. Like air to breathe, earth to stand on.
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Don't I deserve to finally be free of you?
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An idea fell like a seed and over the next weeks it went on growing like a fig vine lush and conquering twining round her old beliefs and covering them in new growth until they were as invisible as a tiger in a thicket and just as deadly.
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Oh, gross. Your stomach is full of butterfly barf!
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I'm afraid they're in love, he said, concerned. They don't want to leave you. He lifted one hand from her waist to gently brush a pair from her neck, where their wings fanned against her jaw. Melancholy, he said, I know just how they feel.
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And they were quiet but their blood and nerves and butterflies were not—they were rampantly alive, rushing and thrumming in a wild and perfect melody, matched note for note.
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We only get to be one person we don't even get to choose that person. By the time we get ahold of ourselves, we are pieces already in play.
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Cats and ghosts both partook of the saucers of milk and that was okay. They consumed different parts of it: the cats its substance, the ghosts its essence, and none went to waste.
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These soldiers had done what they had done, and been done unto in return. This was how it went. In the cycle of slaughter, reprisal begat reprisal, forever.
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Dead souls dream only of death. Small dreams for small men. It is life that expands to fill worlds. Life is your master, or death is
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