One Does No Question Miracles, Or Complain

Faeries Are Fallen Angels," Said Dorothea, "cast Down Out Of Heaven For Their Pride." "that's The Legend," Jace Said. "it's Also Said That They're The Offspring Of Demons And Angels, Which Always Seemed More Likely To Me. Good And Evil, Mixing Together. Faeries Are As Beautiful As Angels Are Supposed To Be, But They Have A Lot Of Mischief And Cruelty In Them. And You'll Notice Most Of Them Avoid Midday Sunlight—" "for The Devil Has No Power," Said Dorothea Softly, As If She Were Reciting An Old Rhyme, "except In The Dark.

He Found Himself Wanting To Write Poetry About How Her Blue Eyes Were Like Starlight And Her Hair Like Night, Because "night" And "starlight" Rhymed, But He Had A Feeling The Poem Wouldn't Turn Out That Well.

And Spare Me The Jokes About Scoring." "dammit, Woman, You Read My Mind," He Said. "is There No Filthy Wordplay You Can't Forsee?" "it's My Special Magical Power. I Can Read Your Mind When You're Thinking Dirty Thoughts." "so, Ninety-five Percent Of The Time.

Every Meeting Led To A Parting, And So It Would, As Long As Life Was Mortal. In Every Meeting There Was Some Of The Sorrow Of Parting, But In Everything Parting There Was Some Of The Joy Of Meeting As Well.

There Was A Brief Pause For Them To Evaluate The Full Horror Of The Situation. Magnus. Personally, Was In Horror Up To His Elbows.