The Name of the Wind (The Kingkiller Chronicle Book 1) by Patrick Rothfuss
Location 714:
"My granda always told me that fall’s the time to root up something you don’t want coming back to trouble you." Kote mimicked the quaver of an old man’s voice. "‘Things are too full of life in the spring months. In the summer, they’re too strong and won’t let go. Autumn…’" He looked around at the changing leaves on the trees. "‘Autumn’s the time. In autumn everything is tired and ready to die.’"
Tags: blue
Location 5223:
We were none of us particularly drunk. But then again, none of us were particularly sober, either. Our exact positioning between those two points is a matter of pointless conjecture, and I will waste no time on it.
Location 5424:
" Elodin poked him in the chest with a long finger. "If I find out that Whin has been sedated or restrained I’ll ride you naked through the streets of Imre like a little pink pony." He glared. "Go."
Location 5528:
As I lay there, counting my blessings and broken ribs, Elodin stepped into my field of vision. He looked down at me. "Congratulations," he said. "That was the stupidest thing I’ve ever seen." His expression was a mix of awe and disbelief. "Ever."
Location 5546:
And there was Ambrose. To deem us simply enemies is to lose the true flavor of our relationship. It was more like the two of us entered into a business partnership in order to more efficiently pursue our mutual interest of hating each other.
Location 5899:
And then there was advanced sympathy with Elxa Dal. Out of class, Elxa Dal was charming, soft-spoken, and even a little ridiculous when the mood was on him. But when he taught, his personality strode back and forth between mad prophet and galley-slave drummer. Every day in his class I burned another three hours of time and five hours worth of energy.
Location 6505:
"Before I leave you to the adulation of your peers, I have to ask. Where did you learn to do that? Play missing a string, I mean." I thought for a moment. "Do you want the short or the long of it?" "I’ll take the short for now." I smiled. "Well in that case, it’s just something I picked up." I made a casual gesture as if tossing something away. "A remnant of my misspent youth."
Location 6640:
Bast brightened at the opportunity. Straightening up in his chair he looked thoughtful for a moment then said. "She had perfect ears." He made a delicate gesture with his hands. "Perfect little ears, like they were carved out of…something." Chronicler laughed, then looked slightly taken aback, as if he’d surprised himself. "Her ears?" he asked as if he couldn’t be sure if he had heard correctly. "You know how hard it is to find a pretty girl with the right sort of ears," Bast said matter-of-factly.
Location 6858:
IN THE FULLNESS OF TIME, and with considerable help from Deoch and Wilem, I became drunk.
Location 7323:
"In addition to being highly corrosive," Kilvin said, "in its gaseous state the reagent is flammable. Once it warms sufficienctly, it will burn on contact with air. The heat that this produces can cause a cascading exothermic reaction." "Cascading huge Goddamn fire," Manet said.
Location 7423:
"What flower would you bring me?" I teased, thinking to catch her off guard. "A willow blossom," she said without a second’s hesitation. I thought for a long minute. "Do willows have blossoms?"
Location 7425:
She looked up and to the side, thinking. "I don’t think so." "A rare treat to be given one then." I chuckled. "Why a willow blossom?" "You remind me of a willow." She said easily. "Strong, deep-rooted, and hidden. You move easily when the storm comes, but never farther than you wish." I lifted my hands as if fending off a blow. "Cease these sweet words," I protested. "You seek to bend me to your will, but it will not work. Your flattery is naught to me but wind!" She watched me for a moment, as if to make sure my tirade was complete. "Beyond all other trees," she said with a curl of a smile on her elegant mouth, "the willow moves to the wind’s desire."
Location 7483:
Wilem tapped Simmon’s shoulder. "He’s telling the truth." Simmon glanced over at him. "Why do you say that?" "He sounds more sincere than that when he lies."
Location 8207:
"Not old really, more…" "Mature?" I suggested. He shook his head. "No. I don’t know a good word for it. It’s like if you look at a great oak tree. You don’t appreciate it because it’s older than the other trees, or because it’s taller. It just has something that other younger trees don’t. Complexity, solidity, significance." Deoch scowled, irritated. "Damn if that isn’t the worst comparison I’ve ever made."
Location 8224:
"Well, you know what they say: Finding the right analogy is as hard as…" I put on a thoughtful expression. "As hard as…" I made an inarticulate grasping gesture.
Location 8375:
"Master Elodin," I said, then stopped. I had no idea what I could possibly say in a situation like this. "Please, we’re all friends here. Feel free to call me by my first name: Master." He gave a lazy grin and looked back down toward the courtyard.
Location 8849:
Still I recognized her. Denna. I must have made some noise, because she turned to look at me. Her eyes went wide and for once she was the one who was at a loss for words. "I heard you were in some trouble," I said nonchalantly. "So I thought I’d come and help." Her eyes went wide for a moment, then narrowed. "You’re lying," she said with a wry twist to her lips. "I am," I admitted. "But it’s a pretty lie." I took a step into the room and closed the door softly. "I would have come, if I’d known." "Anyone can make the trip after they get the news," she said dismissively. "It takes a special sort of man to show up when he doesn’t know there’s trouble." She sat up and turned to face me, swinging her legs over the side of the bed.
Location 9582:
Look at the huge Goddamn dragon!" "It’s a draccus," I said. "It’s Goddamn huge," Denna said with a tinge of hysteria in her voice. "It’s a Goddamn huge dragon and it’s going to come over here and eat us."
Location 9980:
"Then, I don’t know, we could roll rocks down onto it or something." She looked at me. "What? Is there something wrong with my idea?" "It’s not very heroic," I said dismissively. "I was expecting something with a little more flair." "Well I left my armor and warhorse at home," she said. "You’re just upset because your big University brain couldn’t think of a way, and my plan is brilliant."
Location 10025:
"Here is the truth," I said seriously. "I think you’re going to be fine, but I don’t know for certain. I don’t know how much of that stuff you have left working its way into your system. In an hour I’ll have a better idea, but if something goes wrong I’d rather be an hour closer to Trebon. It means I won’t have to carry you as far." I looked her square in the eye. "I don’t gamble with the lives of people I care for." She listened to me, her expression somber. Then the grin blossomed back onto her face. "I like your manly bravado," she said. "Do it some more."
Location 10035:
We crossed the same small stream that we had before, and, despite the fact that it wasn’t much more than ankle deep, Denna insisted on bathing. I washed up a little, then moved a discreet distance away and listened to her sing several rather racy songs. She also made several none-too-subtle invitations that I could join her in the water. Needless to say, I kept my distance. There are names for people who take advantage of women who are not in full control of themselves, and none of those names will ever rightfully be applied to me.
Location 10333:
I WOKE IN A BED. In a room. In an inn. More than that was not immediately clear to me. It felt exactly like someone had hit me in the head with a church.
Location 10542:
I was terribly disappointed that I missed the end. Distraught, in fact." "Oh it’s just the same thing you’ve heard before a hundred times before," I said. "Prince Gallant kills the dragon but loses the treasure and the girl." "Ah, a tragedy," Denna looked down. "Not the ending I’d hoped for, but no more than I expected, I suppose." "It would be something of a tragedy if it stopped there," I admitted. "But it depends on how you look at it, really. I prefer to think of it as a story that’s waiting for an appropriately uplifting sequel."
Location 10559:
I laid my lute case down beside the bench and absentmindedly flipped open the lid, thinking my lute might enjoy the feel of a little sun on its strings. If you aren’t a musician, I don’t expect you to understand.
Location 10583:
"You know I’m right!" Simmon pushed his hair out of his eyes, laughing boyishly. "You can’t argue your way out of this one! She’s obviously stupid for you. And you’re just plain stupid, so it’s a great match."
Location 10812:
He laughed again. "Merciful Tehlu, it almost killed me." He shook his head. "No. You don’t get to go behind the four-plate door. But," he gave me a conspiratorial look. "Since you are a Re’lar…" He looked from side to side as if afraid that someone might overhear us. I leaned closer. "Since you are a Re’lar, I will admit that it exists." He gave me a solemn wink.
Location 10885:
I hesitated, unsure as to how she would respond to my request. "I was wondering, Auri. Would you mind showing me the Underthing?" Auri looked away, suddenly shy. "Kvothe, I thought you were a gentleman," she said, tugging self-consciously at her ragged shirt. "Imagine, asking to see a girl’s underthing." She looked down, her hair hiding her face. I held my breath for a moment, choosing my next words carefully lest I startle her back underground. While I was thinking, Auri peeked at me through the curtain of her hair. "Auri," I asked slowly, "are you joking with me?" She looked up and grinned. "Yes I am," she said proudly. "Isn’t it wonderful?"
Location 10929:
"Whatsoever monies I have saved at the time of my death shall go to the Widow Sage," Bast said loudly across the room. "To help in raising and dowering her three daughters, as they are soon to be of marriaging age." He gave Chronicler a troubled look. "Is ‘marriaging’ a word?"
Location 10934:
"I leave it to Pater Leoden to distribute the remainder of my worldly goods among the parish, as, being an immoral soul, I will have no further need of them." "You mean, immortal, don’t you?" Chronicler asked uncertainly. Bast shrugged.
Location 11524:
Every Fae child knows this, but you mortals never seem to see. We understand how dangerous a mask can be. We all become what we pretend to be." Chronicler relaxed a bit, sensing familiar ground. "That’s basic psychology. You dress a beggar in fine clothes, people treat him like a noble, and he lives up to their expectations." "That’s only the smallest piece of it," Bast said. "The truth is deeper than that. It’s…" Bast floundered for a moment. "It’s like everyone tells a story about themselves inside their own head. Always. All the time. That story makes you what you are. We build ourselves out of that story.
Location 11529:
Frowning, Chronicler opened his mouth, but Bast held up a hand to stop him. "No, listen. I’ve got it now. You meet a girl: shy, unassuming. If you tell her she’s beautiful, she’ll think you’re sweet, but she won’t believe you. She knows that beauty lies in your beholding." Bast gave a grudging shrug. "And sometimes that’s enough." His eyes brightened. "But there’s a better way. You show her she is beautiful. You make mirrors of your eyes, prayers of your hands against her body.
Updated Feb 29, 2020:
Location 577:
It looked as if an alchemist had distilled a dozen swords, and when the crucible had cooled this was lying in the bottom: a sword in its pure form. It was slender and graceful. It was deadly as a sharp stone beneath swift water.
Location 3480:
I looked up at the owner. He held a straight face. I dipped the pen and carefully wrote the letters "D D" as if they were initials. He fanned the ink dry and slid my "receipt" across the desk toward me. "What does D stand for?" he asked with the barest hint of a smile. "Defeasance," I said. "It means to render something null and void, usually a contract. The second D is for Decrepitate. Which is the act of throwing someone into a fire." He gave me a blank look. "Decrepication is the punishment for forgery in Junpui. I think false receipts fall in that category." I made no move to touch the money or the receipt. There was a tense silence. "This isn’t Junpui," he said, his face carefully composed. "True enough," I admitted. "You have a keen sense of defalcation. Perhaps I should add a third D." He gave another sharp, barking laugh and smiled. "You’ve convinced me, young master." He pulled out a fresh slip of paper and set it in front of me. "You write me a receipt, and I will sign it."
Updated: Apr 18, 2022
A Silence of Three Parts IT WAS NIGHT AGAIN. The Waystone Inn lay in silence, and it was a silence of three parts. The most obvious part was a hollow, echoing quiet, made by things that were lacking. If there had been a wind it would have sighed through the trees, set the inn’s sign creaking on its hooks, and brushed the silence down the road like trailing autumn leaves. If there had been a crowd, even a handful of men inside the inn, they would have filled the silence with conversation and laughter, the clatter and clamor one expects from a drinking house during the dark hours of night. If there had been music…but no, of course there was no music. In fact there were none of these things, and so the silence remained. Inside the Waystone a pair of men huddled at one corner of the bar. They drank with quiet determination, avoiding serious discussions of troubling news. In doing this they added a small, sullen silence to the larger, hollow one. It made an alloy of sorts, a counterpoint. The third silence was not an easy thing to notice. If you listened for an hour, you might begin to feel it in the wooden floor underfoot and in the rough, splintering barrels behind the bar. It was in the weight of the black stone hearth that held the heat of a long dead fire. It was in the slow back and forth of a white linen cloth rubbing along the grain of the bar. And it was in the hands of the man who stood there, polishing a stretch of mahogany that already gleamed in the lamplight. The man had true-red hair, red as flame. His eyes were dark and distant, and he moved with the subtle certainty that comes from knowing many things. The Waystone was his, just as the third silence was his. This was appropriate, as it was the greatest silence of the three, wrapping the others inside itself. It was deep and wide as autumn’s ending. It was heavy as a great river-smooth stone. It was the patient, cut-flower sound of a man who is waiting to die.
Updated: Apr 30, 2022
Hours later, the innkeeper stood in the doorway of the Waystone and let his eyes relax to the darkness. Footprints of lamplight from the inn’s windows fell across the dirt road and the doors of the smithy across the way. It was not a large road, or well traveled. It didn’t seem to lead anywhere, as some roads do. The innkeeper drew a deep breath of autumn air and looked around restlessly, as if waiting for something to happen.
Note: This made me think of deep Halloween nights in Forest Lair. When the night seemed huge and dark and cold and alive. There was an otherness in the air. I lived on a wild planet. The night could swallow you.
Black glimmering alien night.
IT WAS ONE OF those perfect autumn days so common in stories and so rare in the real world. The weather was warm and dry, ideal for ripening a field of wheat or corn. On both sides of the road the trees were changing color. Tall poplars had gone a buttery yellow while the shrubby sumac encroaching on the road was tinged a violent red. Only the old oaks seemed reluctant to give up the summer, and their leaves remained an even mingling of gold and green. Everything said, you couldn’t hope for a nicer day to have a half dozen ex-soldiers with hunting bows relieve you of everything you owned.
Kote guessed the travelers had been together a month or so, long enough to become comfortable with each other, but not long enough to be squabbling over small things. They smelled of road dust and horses. He breathed it in like perfume. Best of all was the noise. Leather creaking. Men laughing. The fire cracked and spat. The women flirted. Someone even knocked over a chair. For the first time in a long while there was no silence in the Waystone Inn. Or if there was, it was too faint to be noticed, or too well hidden. Kote was in the middle of it all, always moving, like a man tending a large, complex machine. Ready with a drink just as a person called for it, he talked and listened in the right amounts. He laughed at jokes, shook hands, smiled, and whisked coins off the bar as if he truly needed the money. Then, when the time for songs came and everyone had sung their favorites and still wanted more, Kote led them from behind the bar, clapping to keep a beat. With the fire shining in his hair, he sang "Tinker Tanner," more verses than anyone had heard before, and no one minded in the least.
Kote nodded. "You are, in fact, in the middle of Newarre." He made a dramatic sweeping gesture with one hand. "Thriving metropolis. Home to dozens."
"What does ‘eggoliant’ mean?" Chronicler asked. "Hmmm? Oh, nothing. I made it up. I wanted to see if an unfamiliar word would slow you down." He stretched, and pulled his chair closer to Chronicler’s. "As soon as you show me how to read this, we can begin." Chronicler looked doubtful. "It’s a very complex—" Seeing Kvothe frown, he sighed. "I’ll try." Chronicler drew a deep breath and began to write a line of symbols as he spoke. "There are around fifty different sounds we use to speak. I’ve given each of them a symbol consisting of one or two pen strokes. It’s all sound. I could conceivably transcribe a language I don’t even understand." He pointed. "These are different vowel sounds." "All vertical lines," Kvothe said, looking intently at the page. Chronicler paused, thrown off his stride. "Well…yes." "The consonants would be horizontal then? And they would combine like this?" Taking the pen, Kvothe made a few marks of his own on the page. "Clever. You’d never need more than two or three for a word." Chronicler watched Kvothe quietly. Kvothe didn’t notice, his attention on the paper. "If this is ‘am’ then these must be the ah sounds," he motioned to a group of characters Chronicler had penned. "Ah, ay, aeh, auh. That would make these the ohs." Kvothe nodded to himself and pressed the pen back into Chronicler’s hand. "Show me the consonants." Chronicler penned them down numbly, reciting the sounds as he wrote. After a moment, Kvothe took the pen and completed the list himself, asking the dumbfounded Chronicler to correct him if he made a mistake. Chronicler watched and listened as Kvothe completed the list. From beginning to end the whole process took about fifteen minutes. He made no mistakes. "Wonderfully efficient system," Kvothe said appreciatively. "Very logical. Did you design it yourself?" Chronicler took a long moment before he spoke, staring at the rows of characters on the page in front of Kvothe. Finally, disregarding Kvothe’s question, Chronicler asked, "Did you really learn Tema in a day?" Kvothe gave a faint smile and looked down at the table. "That’s an old story. I’d almost forgotten. It took a day and a half, actually. A day and a half with no sleep. Why do you ask?" "I heard about it at the University. I never really believed it." He looked down at the page of his cipher in Kvothe’s neat handwriting. "All of it?" Kvothe looked puzzled. "What?" "Did you learn the whole language?" "No. Of course not," Kvothe said rather testily. "Only a portion of it. A large portion to be sure, but I don’t believe you can ever learn all of anything, let alone a language." Kvothe rubbed his hands together. "Now, are you ready?" Chronicler shook his head as if to clear it, set out a new sheet of paper, and nodded. Kvothe held up a hand to keep Chronicler from writing, and spoke, "I’ve never told this story before, and I doubt I’ll ever tell it again." Kvothe leaned forward in his chair. "Before we begin, you must remember that I am of the Edema Ruh…
"But what would my father say if he heard me telling a story this way? ‘Begin at the beginning.’ Very well, if we are to have a telling, let’s make it a proper one." Kvothe sat forward in his chair. "In the beginning, as far as I know, the world was spun out of the nameless void by Aleph, who gave everything a name. Or, depending on the version of the tale, found the names all things already possessed." Chronicler let slip a small laugh, though he did not look up from his page or pause in his writing. Kvothe continued, smiling himself. "I see you laugh. Very well, for simplicity’s sake, let us assume I am the center of creation. In doing this, let us pass over innumerable boring stories: the rise and fall of empires, sagas of heroism, ballads of tragic love. Let us hurry forward to the only tale of any real importance." His smile broadened. "Mine."
I have stolen princesses back from sleeping barrow kings. I burned down the town of Trebon. I have spent the night with Felurian and left with both my sanity and my life. I was expelled from the University at a younger age than most people are allowed in. I tread paths by moonlight that others fear to speak of during day. I have talked to Gods, loved women, and written songs that make the minstrels weep. You may have heard of me.
And then there was Abenthy, my first real teacher. He taught me more than all the others set end to end. If not for him, I would never have become the man I am today. I ask that you not hold it against him. He meant well.
Only now, far after the fact, do I recognize how carefully Ben prepared me for what was to come at the University. He did it subtly. Once or twice a day, mixed in with my normal lectures, Ben would present me with a little mental exercise I would have to master before we went on to anything else. He made me play Tirani without a board, keeping track of the stones in my head. Other times he would stop in the middle of a conversation and make me repeat everything said in the last few minutes, word for word. This was levels beyond the simple memorization I had practiced for the stage. My mind was learning to work in different ways, becoming stronger. It felt the same way your body feels after a day of splitting wood, or swimming, or sex. You feel exhausted, languorous, and almost Godlike. This feeling was similar, except it was my intellect that was weary and expanded, languid and latently powerful. I could feel my mind starting to awaken.
"Seven things has Lady Lackless Keeps them underneath her black dress One a ring that’s not for wearing One a sharp word, not for swearing Right beside her husband’s candle There’s a door without a handle In a box, no lid or locks Lackless keeps her husband’s rocks There’s a secret she’s been keeping She’s been dreaming and not sleeping On a road, that’s not for traveling Lackless likes her riddle raveling."
The day we fret about the future is the day we leave our childhood behind.
My mother broke in softly. "I remember too, dear, but I think it was just his small hands. He was awfully young…." "I bet it didn’t stall him for long," Ben said quietly. "He does have marvelous hands; my mother would have called them magician’s fingers." My father smiled. "He gets them from his mother, delicate, but strong. Perfect for scrubbing pots, eh woman?" My mother swatted him, then caught one of his hands in her own and unfolded it for Ben to see. "He gets them from his father, graceful and gentle. Perfect for seducing young nobles’ daughters." My father started to protest, but she ignored him. "With his eyes and those hands there won’t be a woman safe in all the world when he starts hunting after the ladies." "Courting, dear," my father corrected gently. "Semantics," she shrugged. "It’s all a chase, and when the race is done, I think I pity women chaste who run." She leaned back against my father, keeping his hand in her lap.
It was quiet when I turned my attention back to them. My father was looking down at my mother, nestled under his arm. "How about it, woman? Did you happen to bed down with some wandering God a dozen years ago? That might solve our little mystery." She swatted at him playfully, and a thoughtful look crossed her face. "Come to think of it, there was a night, about a dozen years ago, a man came to me. He bound me with kisses and cords of chorded song. He robbed me of my virtue and stole me away." She paused, "But he didn’t have red hair. Couldn’t be him." She smiled wickedly at my father, who appeared a little embarrassed. Then she kissed him. He kissed her back. That’s how I like to remember them today. I snuck away with thoughts of the University dancing in my head.
My parents danced together, her head on his chest. Both had their eyes closed. They seemed so perfectly content. If you can find someone like that, someone who you can hold and close your eyes to the world with, then you’re lucky. Even if it only lasts for a minute or a day. The image of them gently swaying to the music is how I picture love in my mind even after all these years.
The Chancellor’s eyes had taken on a curious look by this point but he pushed it aside as he said, "Is there anything else you would like to say?" He had asked the question of the other applicants, but none of them had taken advantage of it. It seemed almost rhetorical, a ritual before the masters discussed the applicant’s tuition. "Yes, please," I said, surprising him. "I have a favor to ask beyond mere admission." I took a deep breath, letting their attention settle on me. "It has taken me nearly three years to get here. I may seem young, but I belong here as much, if not more, than some rich lordling who can’t tell salt from cyanide by tasting it." I paused. "However, at this moment I have two jots in my purse and nowhere in the world to get more than that. I have nothing worth selling that I haven’t already sold. "Admit me for more than two jots and I will not be able to attend. Admit me for less and I will be here every day, while every night I will do what it takes to stay alive while I study here. I will sleep in alleys and stables, wash dishes for kitchen scraps, beg pennies to buy pens. I will do whatever it takes." I said the last words fiercely, almost snarling them. "But admit me free, and give me three talents so I can live and buy what I need to learn properly, and I will be a student the likes of which you have never seen before." There was a half-breath of silence, followed by a thunderclap of a laugh from Kilvin. "HA!" he roared. "If one student in ten had half his fire I’d teach with a whip and chair instead of chalk and slate." He brought his hand down hard on the table in front of him.
Elodin poked him in the chest with a long finger. "If I find out that Whin has been sedated or restrained I’ll ride you naked through the streets of Imre like a little pink pony." He glared. "Go."
As we approached the Eolian the doorman tugged at the front of a wide-brimmed hat and made a nodding bow. He was at least six and a half feet tall, deeply tanned and muscular. "That will be one jot, young master," he smiled as Wilem handed over a coin. He turned to me next with the same sunny smile. Looking at the lute case I carried he cocked an eyebrow at me. "Good to see a new face. You know the rules?" I nodded and handed him a jot. He turned to point inside. "You see the bar?" It was hard to miss fifty feet of winding mahogany that curved through the far end of the room. "See where the far end turns toward the stage?" I nodded. "See him on the stool? If you decide to try for your pipes, he’s the one you want to talk to. Name’s Stanchion." We both turned away from the room at the same time. I shrugged my lute higher onto my shoulder. "Thank you—" I paused, not knowing his name. "Deoch." He smiled again in his relaxed way. A sudden impulse seized me, and I held out my hand. "Deoch means ‘to drink.’ Will you let me buy you one later?" He looked at me for a long second before he laughed. It was an unrestrained, happy sound that came leaping straight from his chest. He shook my hand warmly. "I just might at that." Deoch released my hand, looking behind me. "Simmon, did you bring us this one?" "He brought me, actually." Simmon seemed put out by my brief exchange with the doorman, but I couldn’t guess why. "I don’t think anyone can really take him anywhere." He handed a jot to Deoch. "I’ll believe that," Deoch said. "There’s something about him I like. He’s a little fae around the edges. I hope he plays for us tonight."
Count Threpe was one of the first to come to me. He looked shorter up close, and older. But he was bright-eyed and laughing as he talked about my song. "Then it broke!" he said, gesturing wildly. "And all I could think was, Not now! Not before the ending! But I saw the blood on your hand and my stomach knotted up. You looked up at us, then down at the strings, and it got quieter and quieter. Then you put your hands back on the lute and all I could think was, There’s a brave boy. Too brave. He doesn’t know he can’t save the end of a broken song with a broken lute. But you did!" He laughed as if I’d played a joke on the world, and danced a quick jig step.
Updated: May 04, 2022
pstscrpt—Please rest assured that I did not notice the disgraceful condition of your bed linens, and did not judge your character thereby.
"You are not wise enough to fear me as I should be feared. You do not know the first note of the music that moves me."
It was the patient, cut-flower sound of a man who is waiting to die.
Updated: May 23, 2022
IT WAS FELLING NIGHT, and the usual crowd had gathered at the Waystone Inn.