But in a solitary life, there are rare moments when another soul dips near yours, as stars once a year brush the earth. Such a constellation was he to me.

He showed me his scars, and in return he let me pretend that I had none.

They do not care if you are good. They barely care if you are wicked. The only thing that makes them listen is power.

This was how mortals found fame, I thought. Through practice and diligence, tending their skills like gardens until they glowed beneath the sun.

How long would I cling to that handful of minutes, trying to cover myself as if with some threadbare blanket?

He liked such sharpness, for there was nothing in him that had any blood you might spill.

Idylle hatte ich unsere gemeinsame Zeit bezeichnet. Illusion hätte es vielleicht besser getroffen.

Non avevo altare, ma non ne avevo bisogno: ogni luogo in cui mi trovavo era il mio tempio.

I understood something then. My sister might be twice the goddess I was, but I was twice the witch. Her crumbling trash could not help me.