Liras tried to remain at his workbench and finish the customer's wings, but the pain grew too much.

I wanted to ask her more questions, about the way the world was made, about death and dreams, but did not want to know the answers.

Magrat was right. This man stood at the heart of it.

I could not answer her. I had no memory of doing anything besides preparing the topaz.

My soul sunk beneath the platform planks and into a sturdy ox figurine with wisps of cooled caramel for its horns.

She would have run, but her legs betrayed her—a contraction, locking her in place, as frozen as the baby within her womb.

She cursed herself for freezing up and ruminating when the proper response was to react.

When she spoke, her voice stopped him, as surely as a knife drawn across his throat.

The cat departs from the moonbeam, flicking its tails.