Amy Rose Quotes

And I think now that fate is shaped half by expectation, half by inattention. But somehow, when you lose something you love, faith takes over. -Rose

Only in art will the lion lie down with the lamb, and the rose grow without thorn.

I want your body. I want your mouth. I want your red hair in my hands. I want your laugh and your funny faces. I want your friendship and your inspirational thoughts. I want Shakespeare and Amber Rose novels ... And I want you to come with me when I go.

A black cat among roses, phlox, lilac-misted under a quarter moon, the sweet smells of heliotrope and night-scented stock. The garden is very still. It is dazed with moonlight, contented with perfume...

Lilac Rose LaRoux. Untouchable. Toxic. I should've been named Ivy, or Foxglove, or Belladonna.

Second Lieutenant Ezra Mason moves through shells and burning plasma like a needle through silk. He sees that patterns before they form. Knows the end before it begins. Flowing across lightless black as action transcends thought. He presses his triggers. And like roses in his hands death blooms.

If I look upon my whole life, I cannot think of another time when I felt more comfortable: when I had no worries, fears, or desires, when my life seemed as soft and lovely as lying inside a cocoon of rose silk.

If you admit you need people, you can lose them.' Her gaze sharpens, returning to the present. 'But needing people can save your life.

And like roses in his hands, death blooms.

Surrogates are not just silly girls, to be bought and sold and treated like pets or furniture. We are a force to be reckoned with.

All of my lower-middle-class Boston issues rose to the surface. I don’t like it when bratty, privileged old white guys speak to me like I am their mouthy niece. I got that amazing feeling you get when you know you are going to lose it in the best, most self-righteous way. I just leaned back and yelled, “FUUUUUUUUUUUUCK YOU.” Then I chased him as he tried to get away from me.

Her caramel skin and curly beach sand hair spreads in wavy chops like the choppy storm waves on the ocean. Her fluffy rose colored lips glisten with eyes emerald green and almond shaped set deep into her face and yet when she looks at you with those same deep set eyes, it feels like they jump out, speaking to you.

Who among us has any conception of the dimensions of shame that will befall us and our children when one day the veil has fallen from our eyes and the most horrible of crimes...reach the light of day?

We all have things we are ashamed of.

I think you can do anything you put your mind to

I look at my reflection and can almost believe I'm capable of something incredible.

This is about a race of people enslaved and made extinct.

Nature is unselfish," she says. "It only wishes to survive. Humanity inflicts harm on it, digs up the earth, poisons the waters, harnesses rock and metal and stone for its own purposes. We are the protectors. We are the connection between humanity and nature. Nature is always searching for balance.

They can be remarkably helpful, the dregs of society. And they love rebelling against authority.

It hardens you, living in that place. It holds up a mirror and shows you the very worst parts of humanity. It changes people.

Don't recite that royal line of crap at me.

Life is a stream On which we strew Petal by petal the flower of our heart; The end lost in dream, They float past our view, We only watch their glad, early start. Freighted with hope, Crimsoned with joy, We scatter the leaves of our opening rose; Their widening scope, Their distant employ, We never shall know. And the stream as it flows Sweeps them away, Each one is gone Ever beyond into infinite ways. We alone stay While years hurry on, The flower fared forth, though its fragrance still stays.

Roses are red. Violets are blue. Garbage gets dumped, and now so have you. - Brian (to Amy)

If you admit you need people, you can lose them. But needing people can save your life.

They can't keep us from being who we are anymore. They can no longer be allowed to dictate our lives.

She wants to believe in the magic and the mystery of it. She doesn't seem to understand that we are part of that magic.

That's what dreams are really like, you know? They're not full of melting clocks or floating roses or people made out of rocks. Most of the time, dreams look just like the normal world. It's your feelings that tell you something's off. Not your mind, not your intellect, not something as obvious as that. The only part of you that really knows what's going on is the part of you that's most a mystery. If that's not Surrealism, I don't know what is.

I want your body. I want your mouth. I want your red hair in my hands. I want your laugh and your funny faces. I want your friendship and your inspirational thoughts. I want Shakespeare and Amber Rose novels … And I want you to come with me when I go.

The royalty take and take and it never seems to be enough for them. They steal girls to make their babies, boys to protect them, or seduce them, or serve them. But we are not objects. We are not the latest fashion or the most expensive prize. We are people. And I'm going to help make them see that.

so we could have roses in December. Someone did not add, So we could have blizzards in June and food poisoning when there was nothing to eat.

We all have things we need to do, no matter how reckless or foolish.

Just then he noticed that Amy had that look, as though she wanted the street to buckle and split so she could fall right in. Dan saw the cool crowd from her school hanging at a table in the front. So that was why she didn't want to go in. Evan Tolliver was at the head of the table. Dan sighed. Even, the human supercomputer, was Amy's dream crush. Whenever Evan was near, she got her stutter back. "Oh, excuse me, I didn't notice Luke Skywalker," Dan said. "Or is it Darth Vader?" "Shhh," Amy said. Her cheeks were red. "He's coming." "You mean Evan Tolliver himself is about to set his foot on the sidewalk? Did you bring the rose petals?" "Cut it out, dweeb!" Amy said fiercely. "Hi, Amy," Evan said from behind her. Amy's color went from summer rose to summer tomato. She shot Dan a look that told him he was in serious trouble. "Hey, Evan," he said. "I'm Amy's little brother, Dweeb. Nice to meet you, man.

„I want your body. I want your mouth. I want your red hair in my hands. I want your laugh and your funny faces. I want your friendship and your inspirational thoughts. I want Shakespeare and Amber Rose novels and your memories of Bailey. And I want you to come with me when I go.

Speaking of names and all-time favorite romances, Bailey told me you write under a pen name. I've been really curious about that." Fern groaned loudly. She shook her fist toward Bailey's house. "Curse your big mouth, Bailey Sheen" She looked at Ambrose with trepidation. "You are going to think I'm some stalker chick. That I'm totally obsessed. But you have to remember that I came up with this alter ego when I was sixteen and I was a bit obsessed. Okay, I'm still a bit obsessed." "With what?" Ambrose was confused. "With you," Fern's response was muffled as she buried her forehead in his chest, but Ambrose still heard her. He laughed and forced her chin up so he could see her face. "I still don't understand what that has to do with your pen name." Fern sighed. "It's Amber Rose." "Ambrose?" "Amber Rose," Fern corrected. "Amber Rose?" Ambrose sputtered. "Yes," Fern said in a very, very small voice. And Ambrose laughed for a very, very long time.

Can I not have the same freedom you have? To choose what I want. Choice is freedom, Violet.

Don't start acting like you're responsible for everyone's problems. I make my own choices. So do you.. Being lied to or bribed or coerced doesn't qualify as making a choice

Hope is the food of the foolish. Eat up, kiddos.

C’est une folie de haïr toutes les roses parce que une épine vous a piqué, d’abandonner tous les rêves parce que l’un d’entre eux ne s’est pas réalisé, de renoncer à toutes les tentatives parce qu’on a échoué… C‘est une folie de condamner toutes les amitiés parce qu’une d’elles vous a trahi, de ne croire plus en l’amour juste parce qu’un d’entre eux a été infidèle, de jeter toutes les chances d’être heureux juste parce que quelque chose n’est pas allé dans la bonne direction. Il y aura toujours une autre occasion, un autre ami, un autre amour, une force nouvelle. Pour chaque fin il y a toujours un nouveau départ.

I press my face against the wrought-iron bars on my window - they are arched and curl into the shape of roses, as i by making a pretty pattern, they can pretend they're something they're not.

La rose complète J’ai une telle conscience de ton être, rose complète, que mon consentement te confond avec mon cœur en fête. Je te respire comme si tu étais, rose, toute la vie, et je me sens l’ami parfait d’une telle amie.

What do you want from me, Ambrose?" Fern cried from behind her hands. He pulled at her wrists, wanting to see her face as he laid it all on the line. "I want your body. I want your mouth. I want your red hair in my hands. I want your laugh and your funny faces. I want your friendship and your inspirational thoughts. I want Shakespeare and Amber Rose novels and your memories of Bailey. And I want you to come with me when I go.

Why is it,” the unhappy teacher finally asked, “that for centuries people have hated you Jews?” Amy rose to her feet. She was stunned. “Don’t ask me that!” the girl said—“ask the madmen who hate us!” And she had nothing further to do with Miss Giddings as a friend—or with anyone else who asked her anything about what they couldn’t possibly understand.

Oh apologies,” Merlin’s face blotched with red. “I, um, come from a society with a history of gender assumptions based on physical markers, aesthetics…et cetera.” Ew,” Ari said. “That’s wicked sad,” Kay added. Merlin, at least, looked deeply ashamed. “You’ve no idea.

Seriously, Lam? Sinister enchantress cannot be your type.” “Sexy in a slip dress certainly is,” Lam said.

I was trapped by an ancient enchantress who—” “Another one?” Val asked. “How many magical women have you pissed off?

What did they pick you up for?” “Disturbing the thing that passes for peace,” Merlin spat. “And yourself?” “I stole seventy-two piñatas,” said Hex, deadpan.

Imagine going through existence as a ghost. An unwelcome whisper. A living curse.

Ari had believed, on some deep level, that she was alone in the universe. That’s why she’d tried to solve all her problems by herself.

Only in art will the lion lie down with the lamb, and the rose grows without the thorn

Motherfucking assballs of unrelenting space whores!

Historically, rose petals were valued for their medicinal qualities than their aesthetic qualities. Rose has antidepressant properties.

Under National Socialism you looked in the mirror and saw your soul. You found yourself out. This applied, par excellence and a fortiori, (by many magnitudes), to the victims, or to those who lived for more than an hour and had time to confront their own reflections. And yet it also applied to everyone else, the malefactors, the collaborators, the witnesses, the conspirators, the outright martyrs (Red orchestra, White Rose, the men and women of July 20), and even the minor obstructors, like me, and like Hannah Doll. We all discovered, or helplessly revealed, who we were. Who somebody really was. That was the Zone of interest.

Are you two old friends?” Lam asked, stepping forward with interest. She gave them a smile that she had honed to a blade over the centuries. “I hate Merlin with the venom of an adder, the rage of a forest fire, and the vigor of a woman making love.” “So…no.

He apologized for breaking his promise not to use magic as he took down the guard with the needle. Then another apology—"sorry, quite sorry" —as he zinged the one holding Hex. "Why are you being so nice to them right now?" Hex asked. "I'm British!" Merlin cried.

…might look and taste and feel like the future, but this was just a new kind of Dark Age. The path humans took through time was less a mythical arrow of progress and more of a squiggle that doubled back on itself, curling and looping. A roller coaster designed by a drunkard.

If you did die tomorrow…” Merlin’s fingers flew into the air. “I can’t—” “Theoretically,” Val said, gently rolling his eyes. “What would you want people to say about you?” “Once upon a time, he had a very nice beard,” Merlin said. “He was the teacher of forty-two king Arthurs. He never gave in to tyrants.

Leave the sword,” Jordan growled. “I’m not going to stab him!” “So I can polish it! You’re doing a terrible job. No wonder you failed knight camp.” “These two flunked out. I was a conscientious objector!” “Yes, and what are you now?” Jordan asked, never fazed by Ari’s temper. “King Fucking Arthur, that’s who!

Ugh, boys,” said Val. “I believe the phrase you’re looking for is straight boys, Merlin corrected. “What is straight? Lam asked, furrowing their brow. “Oh goodness,” Merlin said. “We’ll it’s when a person has attractions to people who are on the other binary end of the…ummm…” “They’re messing with you, Merlin.

She took a puff, put the cigarette in the ashtray and stared at it. Without looking up, she said, But do you believe in love, Mr Evans? She rolled the cigarette end around in the ash tray. Do you? Outside, he thought, beyond this mountain and its snow, there was a world of countless millions of people. He could see them in their cities, in the heat and the light. And he could see this house, so remote and isolated, so far away, and he had a feeling that it once must have seemed to her and Jack, if only for a short time, like the universe with the two of them at its centre. And for a moment he was at the King of Cornwall with Amy in the room they thought of as theirs—with the sea and the sun and the shadows, with the white paint flaking off the French doors and with their rusty lock, with the breezes late of an afternoon and of a night the sound of the waves breaking—and he remembered how that too had once seemed the centre of the universe. I don’t, she said. No, I don’t. It’s too small a word, don’t you think, Mr Evans? I have a friend in Fern Tree who teaches piano. Very musical, she is. I’m tone-deaf myself. But one day she was telling me how every room has a note. You just have to find it. She started warbling away, up and down. And suddenly one note came back to us, just bounced back off the walls and rose from the floor and filled the place with this perfect hum. This beautiful sound. Like you’ve thrown a plum and an orchard comes back at you. You wouldn’t believe it, Mr Evans. These two completely different things, a note and a room, finding each other. It sounded … right. Am I being ridiculous? Do you think that’s what we mean by love, Mr Evans? The note that comes back to you? That finds you even when you don’t want to be found? That one day you find someone, and everything they are comes back to you in a strange way that hums? That fits. That’s beautiful. I’m not explaining myself at all well, am I? she said. I’m not very good with words. But that’s what we were. Jack and me. We didn’t really know each other. I’m not sure if I liked everything about him. I suppose some things about me annoyed him. But I was that room and he was that note and now he’s gone. And everything is silent.

True valor lies, not in what the world calls success, but in the dogged going on when everything in the man says Stop.

Because when you don’t slot into people’s expectations here, they get suspicious at best and violent at worst?

Some days were for saving the universe. Some days, still breathing was all one could hope for.

This whole planet can kiss my ass!

Where’s my breastplate? I need it. Last time someone figured out I have boobs I accidentally murdered him.

Her brother could fuck right off this planet, for all she cared.

We can play battle and knights and kings, but in the end we just want to exist.

This company did not care what happened to the people of this universe as long as they had their power.

I wanted to make a difference in this ridiculous universe.

It wasn’t any fun to feel sick about the cancer of unchecked capitalism.

Your fear is a tyrant.

He’s got you buying magical groceries?” Lam asked. “Merlin. You made yourself into your own bitch.

Because he’s eleven?” “Every time you say his age, he gets younger,” Lam pointed out. “Which is offensive to those of us who actually age backwards!” Merlin cried.

No one is perfect, Tessa, least of all me. We all have scars. Some are a little less obvious, but they are there all the same.

When you want to become a dragon slayer, you don’t charge straight into the nest, swords swinging,” Merlin said. “You sneak in and steal a few coins from his hoard first.” “What if the dragon worked hard for that money?” Lam asked. “You don’t know his life. And how do you even know the dragon’s a..” “ He’s a boy dragon!” Merlin roared. “Sure thing, old man,” Kay said, slapping his arm.

I liked your stats and moons,” Val said softly. “but maybe it’s for the best. Think of it as a complete Merlin makeover.” “You mean like in those teen movies from that hideous decade with the hairspray?

Omg this is like one of those sappy romance movies but I don’t care! Jake is holding my hand! I looked back up at him and we slowly rose staring into each other’s eyes. Ok, where the heck is my awesome music saying he’s the one?! What about a breeze that blows my hair in all directions making me look hot? C’mon Cupid! Give me something!!! A weak chilly breeze blew. It barely even moved my hair. Oh c’mon!!!!

I wrapped my head in my arms, and let the torrent consume me. I had never let myself cry like this. I had feared that if I opened the floodgates I would drown. But as the waves crashed over me, I was not consumed, I was swept up, washed, my soul blanketed with blessed relief. Hope rose within me like a buoy. And with the hope, came peace. And the peace calmed the waters and quieted the storm, until I sat, spent, bled out, done.

Without hesitation I gave him another truth. You . . . are . . . impossible . . . to overlook. His breath caught, and for the first time, I was the one who leaned in, the one who pressed my lips to his, the one who cradled his face in my hands. He allowed me to lead for several long seconds, letting me taste him and test him. Then he rose and brought me with him, scooping me from the water like a nymph from the sea. And I was consumed once more.

Warmth fell over her like a soft rainstorm. They were in a tropical bubble. The frozen ground had turned to warm, yielding sand, and above, a hot, beautiful sun shone. There was no wind here, but—did Ari imagine it?—there seemed to be music. A classical guitar strumming somewhere nearby. There was even a damn palm tree next to Lam. “What the hell is this?” Kay blustered. “Bermuda,” Merlin said with a small shrug that made him stumble. “My happy place.

MADONNA OF THE EVENING FLOWERS All day long I have been working Now I am tired. I call: “Where are you?” But there is only the oak tree rustling in the wind. The house is very quiet, The sun shines in on your books, On your scissors and thimble just put down, But you are not there. Suddenly I am lonely: Where are you? I go about searching. Then I see you, Standing under a spire of pale blue larkspur, With a basket of roses on your arm. You are cool, like silver, And you smile. I think the Canterbury bells are playing little tunes, You tell me that the peonies need spraying, That the columbines have overrun all bounds, That the pyrus japonica should be cut back and rounded. You tell me these things. But I look at you, heart of silver, White heart-flame of polished silver, Burning beneath the blue steeples of the larkspur, And I long to kneel instantly at your feet, While all about us peal the loud, sweet Te Deums of the Canterbury bells

Nuit Blanche" A music coaxed from humming strings would please; Not plucked, but drawn in creeping cadences Across a sunset wall where some Marquise Picks a pale rose amid strange silences. Ghostly and vaporous her gown sweeps by The twilight dusking wall, I hear her feet Delaying on the gravel, and a sigh, Briefly permitted, touches the air like sleet And it is dark, I hear her feet no more. A red moon leers beyond the lily-tank. A drunken moon ogling a sycamore, Running long fingers down its shining flank. A lurching moon, as nimble as a clown, Cuddling the flowers and trees which burn like glass. Red, kissing lips, I feel you on my gown— Kiss me, red lips, and then pass—pass. Music, you are pitiless to-night. And I so old, so cold, so languorously white.

He tried clearing his mind like a junk drawer, rattling everything out. He hopped on one foot to regain equilibrium. He even ate a sandwich, which required an enormous amount of magic to summon. “Nothing worse for future workings than low blood sugar,” he muttered

Have any of you been inside before?” MacQueen gave a soft huff of laughter. “Aye. At Covent Garden a few years back. Lady Astley and I shared a theater box. But a gentleman isn’t supposed to kiss and tell, is he?” “I meant the town house, you dog. Not the countess.

It’s official. I loathe caves,” Val said, wiping off his pants and tugging his corset back into place. He reached desperately for a joke. “When we get back to the future, someone is eventually going to say, ‘Come see these amazing cave formations!’ And I’m going to be like, ‘Leave. We’re not friends anymore.

Are you going to kill me? That's what men do. That's what men have always done. They kill and burn and take, and they stuff their ears against the screams but at the end of the day they want to be remembered as good. So they write stories about their shining deeds and all are made to watch and listen and love them.

Ma liberté Longtemps je t'ai gardée Comme une perle rare Ma liberté c'est toi qui m'as aidé A larguer les amarres Pour aller n'importe où Pour aller jusqu'au bout Des chemins de fortune Pour cueillir en rêvant Une rose des vents Sur un rayon de lune Ma liberté Devant tes volontés Mon âme était soumise Ma liberté je t'avais tout donné Ma dernière chemise Et combien j'ai souffert Pour pouvoir satisfaire Tes moindres exigences J'ai changé de pays J'ai perdu mes amis Pour gagner ta confiance Ma liberté Tu as su désarmer Toutes mes habitudes Ma liberté toi qui m'as fait aimer Même la solitude Toi qui m'as fait sourire Quand je voyais finir Une belle aventure Toi qui m'as protégé Quand j'allais me cacher Pour soigner mes blessures Ma liberté Pourtant je t'ai quittée Une nuit de décembre J'ai déserté les chemins écartés Que nous suivions ensemble Lorsque sans me méfier Les pieds et poings liés Je me suis laissé faire Et je t'ai trahie pour Une prison d'amour Et sa belle geôlière Et je t'ai trahie pour Une prison d'amour Et sa belle geôlière

But you have to let me shave this.” He ran a hand down Merlin’s jaw, and Merlin’s lips parted before he realized what Val meant to do. “No,” Merlin said. “Absolutely not.” “It’s so scruffy!” Val said, rubbing the line of prickly hair. “These are the last remnants of what used to be a glorious beard,” Merlin argued. “People spoke of it for centuries! It was even a curse! Merlin’s beard!

« Les grandes personnes aiment les chiffres. Quand vous leur parlez d'un nouvel ami, elles ne vous questionnent jamais sur l'essentiel. Elles ne vous disent jamais : "Quel est le son de sa voix ? Quels sont les jeux qu'il préfère ? Est-ce qu'il collectionne les papillons ?" Elles vous demandent : "Quel age a-t-il ? Combien a-t-il de frères ? Combien pèse-t-il ? Combien gagne son père ? " Alors seulement elles croient le connaitre. Si vous dites aux grandes personnes : "J'ai vu une belle maison en briques roses, avec des géraniums aux fenêtres et des colombes sur le toit..." elles ne parviennent pas à s'imaginer cette maison. Il faut leur dire : "J'ai vu une maison de cent mille francs." Alors elles s'écrient : "Comme c'est joli!" […] Elles sont comme ça. Il ne faut pas leur en vouloir. Les enfants doivent être très indulgents envers les grandes personnes. »

He spun around, still hurtling backward, to say good-bye to the planet where he had spent so many ages. “You gave me toast slathered in jam,” he said, starting with the best things. “You gave me magic, and some very nice views.” He probably should have kept it to happy memories, but the not-so-happy ones elbowed their way in. “You let Morgana exist. You let Arthur die. Forty-one times.” Earth stared at him, unapologetic. “I’m not going to miss you very much, either.

The Garden by Moonlight" A black cat among roses, Phlox, lilac-misted under a first-quarter moon, The sweet smells of heliotrope and night-scented stock. The garden is very still, It is dazed with moonlight, Contented with perfume, Dreaming the opium dreams of its folded poppies. Firefly lights open and vanish High as the tip buds of the golden glow Low as the sweet alyssum flowers at my feet. Moon-shimmer on leaves and trellises, Moon-spikes shafting through the snow ball bush. Only the little faces of the ladies’ delight are alert and staring, Only the cat, padding between the roses, Shakes a branch and breaks the chequered pattern As water is broken by the falling of a leaf. Then you come, And you are quiet like the garden, And white like the alyssum flowers, And beautiful as the silent sparks of the fireflies. Ah, Beloved, do you see those orange lilies? They knew my mother, But who belonging to me will they know When I am gone.

Amit Xander karjaiban átélt, az maga volt a csoda, a nagybetűs szenvedély, ami miatt birodalmak épültek és dőltek össze, ami arra késztetett embereket, hogy a fellegekig repüljenek, vagy épp ellenkezőleg, megjárják a poklok-poklát, hazudjanak, csaljanak vagy akár öljenek is. Kicsit megrémisztette ez a mindent elsöprő érzelem, ugyanakkor érezte, a közöttük szövődött kapcsolat nem az a fajta, amelyik rombol vagy elvesz, inkább az, amelyik minél tovább tart, annál többet ad mindkét fél számára.

He split his hands apart and the bullet that was headed for his face broke into a hundred shards, all of which flew wide. To prove that he still could, he wove his fingers back together and the bullet reformed behind him, hitting another tree with a righteous thump. He neatly sidestepped the falling tree. It landed with a crash. “I don’t have time to be shot at right now,” Merlin said to the machine. “Now would you please point me to the nearest spaceship? I need to get off this, as they said in the last age I lived through, hot mess of a planet.

Down in the valley, valley so low Hang your head over, hear the wind blow Hear the wind blow, love, hear the wind blow Hang your head over, hear the wind blow” “Roses love sunshine, violets love dew Angels in heaven know I love you Know I love you, love, know I love you Angels in heaven know I love you.” Write me a letter, send it by mail Send it in care of the Birmingham jail Birmingham jail, love, Birmingham jail Send it in care of the Birmingham jail.” Build me a castle, forty feet high So I can see her as she rides by As she rides by, dear, as she rides by So I can see her as she rides by

C’est une folie de haïr toutes les roses parce que une épine vous a piqué, d’abandonner tous les rêves parce que l’un d’entre eux ne s’est pas réalisé, de renoncer à toutes les tentatives parce qu’on a échoué… C ‘est une folie de condamner toutes les amitiés parce qu’une d’elles vous a trahi, de ne croire plus en l’amour juste parce qu’un d’entre eux a été infidèle, de jeter toutes les chances d’être heureux juste parce que quelque chose n’est pas allé dans la bonne direction. Il y aura toujours une autre occasion, un autre ami, un autre amour, une force nouvelle. Pour chaque fin il y a toujours un nouveau départ.

Inside, on a bed of black velvet, lay an exquisite perfume bottle designed from rose-colored glass caged in a silver overlay that twined about the glass like living vines. In the very center of the oval shaped bottle, the silver was formed into the image of a lily in full bloom. It was likely the most precious and expensive gift Lily had ever been given. She ran her fingertips over the delicate silver work before lifting the bottle from its velvet bed to allow the candlelight to shine through the rose-colored glass. She noticed then a folded slip of paper still in the box. Setting the perfume bottle in the valley of her lap, she lifted the paper and broke the tiny wax seal. In his precise, slanted script, Lord Harte had written: I was unforgivably remiss in not having a gift for you the other night. I chose the elements for this blend myself. It made me think of you. Lily brushed her thumb over the ink before setting the note back into the box. Then she shifted the bottle and removed the glass stopper. The scent wafting from the bottle was light, but heady. She noticed first the rich notes of clove and honey before her senses were claimed by the smooth, velvety scent of jasmine. Lily closed her eyes, allowing the aromatic infusion to settle into her awareness. There was another element hidden deep within the perfume. A layer of earthiness that warmed her blood. Sandalwood. Lily was enthralled. It was a complex and lovely scent. Floral and exotic, light and dark. Impossibly sensual. And it made him think of her. Something deep and fundamental spread through her core, and she understood why young ladies were warned so often not to accept gifts from gentlemen. It was a personal and intimate thing to acknowledge how he had wanted her to have something he chose himself.

Kee Li Tong was one of my favorite chocolatiers in New York. Years earlier, I had a fleeting addiction to her otherworldly crème brûlée truffle, a dainty yet dangerous homemade bonbon that you have to pop into your mouth whole, or suffer the consequences of squirting eggy custard all over your blouse. Now, I discovered, she was handcrafting macarons in wild and wonderful flavors like blood orange, sesame, and rose. How did she create her recipes? What inspired her expanded repertoire? And how did hers compare to Paris's best? Emboldened as I was by my new French history lessons, I asked Kee in her Soho boutique: why macarons? "Because they're so pretty!" Kee laughed. "They're so dainty. I think it's the colors." And, standing as we were above the glass display case, I had to agree. Her blueberry macarons were as bright as the September sky. The lotus flower was the kind of soft pink that's the perfect shade of blush. Kee's favorite flavor, passion fruit, was a snappy corn husk yellow. These were surrounded by greens (lulo and jasmine green tea) and purples (lavender, which was dotted with purple sugar crystals) and some neutral shades as well (white truffle oil and mint mocha).

I am your wife, but I will do as I please, I raged, and the spell rose in my head without effort. Belt that holds my husband’s pants, Loosen now and make him dance. Tiras’s belt flew from his breeches like a sea serpent, slithering through the air only to strike at him with its tail. He stepped back from me, his eyes growing wide as he gripped the gyrating length of leather, holding it at arm’s length with one hand as he held up his pants with the other. But I wasn’t finished. Boots upon my husband’s feet, Kick him so he’ll take a seat. Tiras fell flat on his behind as his boots shimmied and wriggled free, throwing him off balance. His boots then proceeded to kick him on his back and his thighs as he yowled in stunned outrage. “Lark!” Shirt upon my husband’s chest, Wrap yourself around his head. His tunic promptly rose like Tiras was shrugging it off, only it wrapped itself around him, obscuring his angry face. I started to laugh then. I couldn’t help it. He looked so ridiculous sitting on the floor of the library, his socks hanging from his feet, his breeches falling around his hips, his shirt over his head, and his boots and belt attacking him. Tiras lashed out and grabbed my skirts, yanking me down beside him. “Call off the hounds, Lark!” he bellowed, and I laughed even harder, shaking with mirth even as he rolled himself on top of me and valiantly fought the tunic that kept wrapping itself around his face. The tunic was slightly dangerous, the boots weren’t very accurate, and the tail end of the belt had made a welt across my cheek. I decided enough was enough. I performed a sloppy rhyme, and Tiras let out a stream of profanities as the shirt ceased its murderous attempts and the belt and boots fell to the floor, inanimate once again. Tiras’s breathing was harsh and fast, his hair mussed and falling over his eyes as he braced his forearms on either side of my head. His big body pressed me into the floor, making it hard to draw breath. I was well and truly trapped, but I felt like the victor regardless. Are you injured, husband? He was glaring and angry for all of three seconds. Then the lines around his eyes deepened and a smile broke out across his face. He laughed with me, but he kept me pinned beneath him, his face inches from mine. “You enjoyed that, didn’t you?” Immensely. “Tell me this, wife. Is there a spell to quickly remove your dress?” he whispered, still smiling, his breath tickling my mouth. I felt my face grow hot, and I closed my eyes, trying to retreat, even as I immediately considered a spell to render us both naked.

You can’t do that again, Josie. I don’t want you to take care of me. I know you did it because you do care….but don’t take my pride from me.” “Is pride more important than friendship?” I said sadly. “Yes!” Samuel’s voice was harsh and emphatic. “That is so ridiculous!” I threw my arms wide in frustration. “Josie! You are just a little girl! You don’t know how helpless and weak and stupid it made me feel to stand there while you arranged my life like I was some kind of charity case!” Samuel fisted his hands in his hair and growling, turned towards the door. “I am not a little girl! I haven’t been a little girl for years…forever! I don’t think like a little girl, I don’t act like a little girl. I don’t LOOK like a little girl, do I? Don’t you dare say I am a little girl!” I pounded down on the piano keys - playing a violent riff, reminiscent of Wagner himself. Now I knew what Sonja meant by letting out the beast! I wanted to throw something, or smash something, and scream at Samuel. He was so impossible! Such a stubborn, mule-headed jerk! I played hard for several minutes, and Samuel stood at the door, dumbfounded. Suddenly Samuel sat down beside me on the piano bench and put his hands over the top of mine, bringing the din to a halt. “I’m sorry, Josie,” Samuel said softly. I was crying, tears dripping down onto the keys, making them slippery. I was a terrible beast, not fierce at all - just a blubbering baby beast. Samuel seemed at a loss. He sat very still, his hands covering mine. Slowly, his hands rose to my face and gently wiped the tears from my cheeks. “Will you play something else?” He requested softly, his voice remorseful. “Will you play something for me....please?

Amy, listen to me.  Listen to me.  Don't you ever let them tell you you're ugly!  Don't ever let them tell you you're dirty.  You're a beautiful person, inside and out, thoughtful, sensitive and kind.  I don't care what Sylvanus says, or what anyone else thinks.  You'll find yourself a nice man to marry someday, and if your family's trying to convince you otherwise, it's only because they have an unpaid servant in you and they don't want to lose you." He heard what sounded like a gulp, then a sniffle. "Amy?" "I — I'm sorry, Ch-Charles.  No one's ever said anything like that to me before, and . . . and I j-just don't know what to make of it —" "Oh, God, don't cry.  I don't know how to deal with tearful females, truly I don't." "I c-can't help it, you're being so nice to me, saying that I'm beautiful when really, I'm not, and — "You are beautiful, Amy, and don't you ever forget it." "You can't say that, you've never even seen me!" "Come here." "I am here." "Come closer, then, and let me judge the issue for myself." She did. "Now, place my hands on your face." Sniffling, she took his hands within her own.  Or tried to, given that hers were half the size of his and dainty as a bird's foot. And then she raised them to her face, placing one on each hot, tearstained cheek. The minute he felt her flesh beneath his, Charles knew this was a mistake.  A big mistake.  But to stop now would crush her. "Ah, Amy.  How can you think you're ugly?  Your skin is so soft that it feels like roses after a morning rain." "It's too dark.  Bronzy.  Not at all the color of Ophelia's and Mildred's." "And who says skin has to be milk-white to be beautiful?" "Well . . . no one, I guess." He gently pressed his thumbs against her cheeks, noting that they were hot with blush, soft as thistledown, and that the delicate bones beneath were high and prominent.  "And look at these cheekbones!  I know women — aristocratic women, mind you — who'd kill for cheekbones like these.  High cheekbones are a mark of great beauty, you know." "High cheekbones are a mark of Indian blood." "Amy." "Yes?" "Stop it." "I'm sorry." He continued on, now tracing the curve of her brow, and the bridge of her nose.  He had lost his eyesight, but it was amazing what his hands could see. "You have a lovely nose," he said. "It's too strong." "No it isn't.  Close your eyes." She did.  He could feel the fragile veneer of her eyelids, trembling faintly beneath his fingertips, and long, long lashes that brushed those cheekbones he had so admired. "What color are your eyes, Amy?" "Brown." "What color brown?  Brown like conkers?  Brown like nutmeg?  Brown like black?" "Brown like mud." "Can you think of a more flattering word?" "No." His hands moved out over her face, learning its shape, before touching the plaited, pinned-up mass of her hair.  It was straight, he could tell that much.  Shiny like glass, as soft as a fern.  He wished it was down. Good God, man, whatever are you thinking?! "My hair's brown, too," Amy said, her voice now a tremulous, barely audible whisper. "Brown like mud?" he cajoled. "No.  Brown like black.  And when the sun comes out, it's got reddish undertones." "It sounds very pretty." "It's not, really.  It's just hair." "Just hair.  Do you ever wear it down?" "No." "Why not?" "It gets in the way of things." "Don't you think that someday, a man will wish to drag his fingers through all this hair?" "No . . . no respectable man." He shook his head, his heart aching for her.  "Oh, Amy." He

PEER GYNT L'âme, souffle et lumière du verbe, te viendra plus tard, ma fille Quand, en lettres d'or, sur le fond rose de l'Orient, apparaîtront ces mots : Voici le jour, alors commenceront les leçons ; ne crains rien, tu seras instruite. Mais je serais un sot de vouloir, dans le calme de cette tiède nuit,me parer de quelques baillons d'un vieux savoir usé, pour te traiter en maître d'école. Après tout, le principal, quand on y réfléchit, ce n'est point l'âme, c'est le cœur. ANITRA Parle seigneur. Quand tu parles, il me semble voir comme des lueurs d'opale. PBER GYNT La raison poussée à l'excès est de la bêtise. La poltronnerie s'épanouit en cruauté. L'exagération de la vérité, c'est de la sagesse à l'envers. Oui, mon enfant, le diable m'emporte s'il n'y a pas de par le monde des êtres gavés d'âme qui n'en ont que plus de peine à voir clair. J'ai connu un individu de cette sorte, une vraie perle pourtant, qui a manqué son but et perdu la boussole. Vois-tu ce désert qui entoure l'oasis? Je n'aurais qu'à agiter mon turban pour que les flots de l'Océan en comblassent toute l'étendue. Mais je serais un imbécile de créer ainsi des continents et des mers nouvelles. Sais-tu, ce que c'est que de vivre? ANITRA Enseigne-le-moi. PEER GYNT C'est planer au-dessus du temps qui coule, en descendre le courant sans se mouiller les pieds, et sans jamais rien perdre de soi-même. Pour être celui qu'on est, ma petite amie, il faut la force de l'âge! Un vieil aigle perd son piumage, une vieille rosse son allure, une vieille commère ses dents. La peau se ride, et l'âme aussi. Jeunesse ! jeunesse ! Par toi je veux régner non sur les palmes et les vignes de quelque Gyntiana, mais sur la pensée vierge d'une femme dont je serai le sultan ardent et vigoureux. Je t'ai fait, ma petite, la grâce de te séduire, d'élire ton cœur pour y fonder un kalifat nouveau. Je veux être le maître de tes soupirs. Dans mon royaume, j'introduirai le régime absolu. Nous séparer sera la mort... pour toi, s'entend. Pas une fibre, pas une parcelle de toi qei ne m'appartienne. Ni oui, ni non, tu n'auras d'autre volonté que la mienne. Ta chevelure, noire comme la nuit, et tout ce qui, chez toi, est doux à nommer, s'inclinera devant mon pouvoir souverain. Ce seront mes jardins de Babylone.