You talk about her as if she's made of spun glass. Know what I see? Steel.

The general's daughter? We'd be fools not to. You talk about her as if she's made of spun glass. Know what I see? Steel.

For a moment she didn't understand what he wanted, then she drew the dagger he'd made for her and gave it to himArin looked it over---surprised, pleased. "You take good care of it."She took it back. "Of course I do." Her voice was rough and wrong.He peered at her. Friendly, he said, "Yes, of course. Is there a saying for it? 'A Valorian always polishes her blade.' Something like that.""I take care of it," she said, suddenly both miserable and angry, "because you made it for me.

Once there was a girl who was too sure of herself. Not everyone would call her beautiful, but they admitted that she had a certain grace that intimidated more often than it charmed. She was not, society agreed, someone you wanted to cross. She keeps her heart in a porcelain box, people whispered, and they were right.

I want better choices.""Then we must make a world that has them.

A window is just a window. Colored glass: mere glass. But in the sun it becomes more. She would show him, and say, love should do this.

Maybe love was easy, she thought. Maybe her past wasn't vital as her present, she thought. But then she heard her father say that she'd broken his heart, and she could no longer believe that either thought was true.

After ten years of slavery, Arin knew obedience in its many forms. The fear of pain, the gritty promise to oneself of vengeance. Hopelessness. A grinding monotony broken just often enough by the strap or fist.

In the end she was here and he was free. She had done every thing she could. And he didn't even know.