author and triathlete"wizened Zerba, whose back and hands were curled with pain, whose face was pocked and scarred."
"Her black hair glistened in the sun, her eyes were dark and piercing. Her frame, as it turned toward me, was willowy and lithe."
"I saw the sun had risen to dapple the girl's face black and gold. Delicate and smooth underneath the grime, her features reminded me of the queen's when she had been young. The only difference was the uncertainty. The queen had never been uncertain."
"Two servants dressed in fine silver and brown livery appeared. . . . Merchant Minitz bowed at a finely dressed man with a wide mustache."
"A woman who was more than one hundred years old. A woman who was still too tall, still broad shouldered, and still clumsy in her movements. A woman whose over large hands were dotted with brown spots, whose olive-colored skin was puckered and sagging everywhere. A woman whose hair was pure white, as white as Zerba's when she died."
Then suddenly I felt the barriers come down between us. It was like a rush of fresh cool water on a hot summer's day. And like pure, clean water in a stream, I could taste the magic flowing freely between us. I could float in it, down it, with it, through it. Or I could let it come to me, let it drown me.
The merchant's house was no castle with winding turrets and gargoyles. But it was a fine home nonetheless, with lights in the windows that seemed to wink and welcome. I could see that Ivana was overwhelmed by the wonder of it, for it would have bought ten villages the size of the one she had lived in with her father.
The fire was well stoke there, and the furnishings were in fine condition and good taste. A little on the older side, perhaps, but not worn. The colors were subdued, not what I would have guessed Merchant Minitz or Talia would have chosen. Perhaps his wife, before she had died. The magic was slightly stroner here, as a tea would be, left to steep a few minutes more.
The road ended as a massive edifice of gray stone rose before us, clearly outlined in torchlight.
I came close enough to see the warmth in the polished color of the wood and the intricate carving around the glass. It was not a large mirror, however. "It is as beautiful as you are," I said, at last. . . .
It was only after I touched the whorled wood against my skin, sensed the magic, bitter and smelling of old smoke, of death.
She leaped toward me like an overzie frog.
I saw Talia leaping over me, crossing the chasm between wagon and horse, making a bridge of herself. Her hair flew behind her and small body landed hard, though she made no sound of pain. . . . The horse shivered, its eyes rolling. Then its hooves slowed and it raised its head.