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“Health's not so little a thing, ' said the dust-wife. 'Compared to the alternative, anyway.' Marra's lip curled. 'She might have wished us safe,' she growled. 'Or at least that we wouldn't marry someone who'd murder us.' 'She might have,' said the dust-wife. 'But parents object to people making pronouncements like that at christenings, for some odd reason.”

“It was fourteen hours later that Marra and the dust-wife flung themselves at the stone lid, scrabbling with all their strength. For a horrible moment, she thought that it would not be enough, that they would have to come back with levers, but it began, inch by agonising inch, to slide. They got it perhaps six inches and had to stop, panting. Fingers slid out of the gap and caught the edge. Marra nearly wept with relief. Fenris shoved the lid aside and sat up, gasping for air. 'You're really here,' he said, bending over so that his forehead touched his drawn-up knees. 'I kept imagining voices, but you're really here this time.' 'We're here,' said Marra, the words this time jabbing her like pins. He took a half dozen sobbing breaths. 'It is very close in there,' he said, 'even with holes.' His face was slick with sweat or tears, Marra did not know. 'Close and cold.' 'I'm sorry,' said Marra. 'I'm sorry. It was the only way I could think of.' She pulled him out of the coffin, or he climbed out and she helped, and he wrapped his arms around her and they stood together, shaking.”

“Did an echo just tell us to run?' asked Agnes, adjusting Finder, and looking rather calmer than Marra felt. 'Do ghostly echoes have our best interest at heart?' asked Fenris, also remarkably calm. 'Rarely,' said the dust-wife. Marra thought, I'm surrounded by lunatics, but and I love them all, but maybe we should be running, anyway.”

“You need to train him to sleep elsewhere,' said the dust-wife, disapprovingly. 'Otherwise you'll have a rooster who thinks he should dive headfirst in to your cleavage when he wants to roost.' 'It's been a while since any man wanted to dive in to my cleavage,' said Agnes. 'It might be a nice change.' 'Not when the spurs grow in.' 'Oh, well, probably not.”

“They emerged, stumbling in to the starlight. The man at Marra's side gasped in air as if he had never breathed before. 'Free,' he said. 'Am I free of that place?' 'Almost,' said the dust-wife. 'Not quite yet. We've got one foot in the other world, and it isn't safe to linger.' ... 'Now,' said the dust-wife, leaning on her staff. 'Now we're all the way back. Now you're free.”

“He isn't my prince,' said Marra acidly. 'If you plan to kill him, he is. Your victim. Your prince. All the same. You sink a knife in to someone's guts, you're bound to them in that moment. Watch a murderer go through the world and you'll see all his victims trailing behind him on black cords, shades of ghosts waiting for their chance.”

“The king gathered himself. It felt as if the tomb was breathing in. The painted warriors lifted their swords and the archers let fly their arrows, aimed at the dust-wife. They were trapped in the wall and it should not have been possible for them to reach her, and yet for a moment, it seemed as if she would be drawn in to the wall, as if the arrows must reach her... Moonlight flashed as she held up her staff and the painted arrows fell apart in to scattered pigment across the floor. I will not bend! hissed the dead king, rising from his throne. 'Then you will break,' said the dust-wife, and slammed her staff across the painted wall.”

“She broke in to a run, not caring if the thief-wheel heard her now, half sobbing. 'Fenris! Agnes! Dust-wife!' 'Marra?' She broke in to the room and before she could even focus, Fenris had thrown his arms around her and had his face pressed against her hair. 'You're alive,' he said. 'I thought I'd lost you. You're alive.' 'You're alive, too!' she said. She wanted to stop and think about what I thought I'd lost you might mean, but it didn't quite seem like the time. And he was very warm and she was very cold and it was very pleasant to be held in such a fashion. 'You're alive. 'Yes, yes,' said the dust-wife testily. 'We're all alive. Please don't cry on me about it, though.' Fenris finally released her, although not without reluctance. Bonedog immediately leapt up at her, washing her face with his tongue.”

“Somebody gives a lonely child a toy and they pour all their hopes and fears and problems into it. Do it long enough and intensely enough, and then it just needs a stray bit of bad luck and the toy wakes up. Of course, it knows that the only reason it is alive is because of the child. A tiny personal god with one worshipper. It latches on and... well.' She clicked her tongue. 'Normally, you get them pried off and burned long before adolescence. Impressive that it lasted this long.”