It would take one million men, one hundred years
Lord Akeldama sighed. 'You lovebirds, how will I endure such flirtations constantly in my company? How déclassé, Lord Maccon, to love your own wife.
His eyes are peculiar. There is nothing in them, like an eclair without the cream filling. It's wrong, lack of cream.
The duke contents himself mainly with attempting to rule the world and other suchlike nonsense. When one is guiding the patterns of the social universe, a single spinster preternatural is unlikely to cause one undue distress.
Who doesn’t want an exploding wicker chicken?
Lord Maccon asked meekly, shifting against her in a manner that ensured she realized the nibbling had affected his outsides just as much as her insides. Alexia was partly shocked, partly intrigued by the idea that as he was naked, she might actually get to see what he looked like. She had seen sketches of the nude male, of course, for purely technical purposes. She was given to wonder if werewolves were anatomically bigger in certain areas.
Classic author moment, "Oh dear, did I kill that character or not?
Two drinks a day. Two drinks a day. TWO DRINKS A DAY! It doesn't work! Not when you want eleven, and not when you start shopping for wine glasses in the vase department at Bloomingdales.
Music was my friend when I was a teenager, and I would inhabit and take comfort in lyrics. That's how I want to write.
I never could understand why some writers treat women as helpless. Every woman I know is strong in her own unique way.
[Tho]ugh death be a dark passage; it leads to immortality, and that is recompense enough for suffering of it. And yet faith lights us, even through the grave. . . . And this is the comfort of the good, and the grave cannot hold them, and they live as they die. For death is no more than a turning of us over from time to eternity.