Umi Siskin of Lumis leads the mischievous Prince Tatsuya of Planet Cygnet across the Plutonian Sea to the land of alchemists and rebirth.
Sadie owned the most remarkable pair of green eyes Iván had ever itched to paint.
Why the sixteenth patriarch of Regnor had invited him to his residence was still unclear to Umi.
He killed any fondness for his favorite game, of spotting the nervous buttonquails when they ran. He thought not at all of being sent off to bed without haggard carers and squabbling sisters.
Black smoke bled through the window, billowing over Shardae’s bed in a great cloud. Shardae backed away as it spilled from the sheets to the tile, and a lounging shape began to take form.
“Regnor has a history with magic like this. We’ll send him there.”
Umi caressed the careful stitching of petals in his fingers. Would life have felt like pink embroidery if he’d gone the path meant for him? For her, he denied. Not me. Yet here he sat in the priestess’s tower.
It took them hours to reach it—a flat, dark lake with coarse water, sheltered by the broken sides of what had once been a quarry. James didn’t say it, but Eric knew he could have covered three times their distance in half the time if he'd gone alone.
“Naples Cathedral,” Lizzy said. “The Assumption of Mary, or the Cathedral of Saint Januarius, if you prefer.”
Talking writer problems to a non-writer is a bit like chatting up a flat-earther: you assume you're on the same page until you aren't. Every writer writes differently, of course. But on the off-chance you relate, here are the deep, gritty confessions (and precautions) of a habitual fiction-writer.