Emily

“Where Bastian struggled against his cage, Gabe clung to his own, wanting the walls to shape him, shoving himself inside to make boundaries he knew. He’d built himself into something he thought the world wanted, and though it chafed at him, Lore envied it, just a bit. There was a reassurance in knowing exactly how you were going to be let down.”
― Hannah F. Whitten, The Foxglove King

“She was very familiar with the way people wielded pity like a bayonet, hiding the desire to make sure you knew your place behind false concern.”
― Hannah F. Whitten, The Foxglove King

“Are you so accustomed to being used that you don’t realize when it’s happening, as long as it’s done kindly?”
― Hannah F. Whitten, The Foxglove King

“So,” the Sainted King said. “This is our deathwitch.”
Lore fidgeted a moment, wondering if she should curtsy, quickly deciding that it would only lead to falling on her ass. Instead she lifted her chin and clenched her hands in her skirt.
“In the flesh.”
The corner of the King’s mouth flickered up and down again, a smile only in shape. “They tell me you’ve fallen in with poison runners. How did that happen to a woman of your prodigious talent?”
“Too mean to charge for my company, too clumsy for barkeeping, and I’m a terrible cook. That rules out most gainful employment.” She said it pleasantly enough, an answer that gave away nothing important. “My prodigious talent isn’t good for much, honestly.”
― Hannah F. Whitten, The Foxglove King