But After All, The Villains Are The

No Prince Had Lived In Those Wretched Hovels, No Red-robed Bishops, Only Farmers And Laborers Whose Stories No One Had Written Down, And Now They Were Lost, Buried Under Wild Thyme And Fast Growing Spurge.

Don't Let It Worry You, Not Being Able To Speak,'dustfinger Had Often Told Her. 'people Tend Not To Listen Anyway, Right?

There Could Be Few Men Whose Love For A Woman Had Been Written On His Face With A Knife.

Why Could She Remember Nothing But Stories Of Frightened People When Capricorn Looked At Her? She Usually Found It So Easy To Escape Somewhere Else, To Get Right Inside The Minds Of People And Animals Who Existed Only On Paper, So Why Not Now? Because She Was Afraid. "because Fear Kills Everything," Mo Had Once Told Her. "your Mind, Your Heart, Your Imagination.

There Was Another Reason [she] Took Her Books Whenever They Went Away. They Were Her Home When She Was Somewhere Strange. They Were Familiar Voices, Friends That Never Quarreled With Her, Clever, Powerful Friends -- Daring And Knowledgeable, Tried And Tested Adventurers Who Had Traveled Far And Wide. Her Books Cheered Her Up When She Was Sad And Kept Her From Being Bored.