Apprentice Best Quotes

Then the two friends leaned back and watched the sun rise clear of the trees. “Best time of day,” said Will. Yes,” Horace agreed. “What’s for breakfast?

Once you best a man, never gloat. Be generous and find something in his actions to praise. He won't enjoy being bested, but he'll make a good face of it. Show him you appreciate it. Praise can win you a friend. Gloating will only ever make enemies.

I'll think of something," he temporized, and Horace nodded wisely, satisfied that Halt would indeed think of something. In Horace's world, that was what Rangers did best, and the best thing a warrior apprentice could do was let the Ranger get on with thinking while a warrior took care of walloping anyone who needed to be walloped along the way. He settled back in the saddle, contented with his lot in life.

Best way then is to be waiting for them to bring Halt and the others out of that prison,” he said, almost to himself. “There’s only one reason I can think of that they might do that,” Umar said. “That’s if they are going to execute them.” Will lookd at him for several seconds before speaking. “Well, that’s a big comfort.

It is the hardest thing of all, the one thing that will show if you have the one true courage. To know that you have failed, that your best efforts have been defeated, to not be able to stand it, to not be able to go on and yet to go on nonetheless.

Of course you love her!" he'd replied. "She's been your best friend since you both could walk, and now she's grown up to be beautiful, talented, intelligent and witty. What's not to love about all that?

Me?" he said in some surprise. "I won't be dancing! It's the bridal dance. The bride and groom dance alone!" For one circuit of the room," she told him. "After which they are joined by the best man and first bridesmaid, then by the groomsman and the second bridesmaid." Will reacted as he had been stung. He leaned over to speak across Jenny on his left, to Gilan. Gil! Did you know we have to dance?" he asked. Gilan nodded enthusiastically. Oh yes indeed. Jenny and I have been practicing for the past three days, haven't we, Jen?" Jenny looked up at him adoringly and nodded. Jenny was in love. Gilan was tall, dashing, good-looking, charming and very ammusing. Plus he was cloaked in the mystery and romance tat came with being a Ranger. Jenny had only ever known one ranger and that had been grim-faced, gray-bearded Halt.

Some people make choices hoping for the best; Korsak had made a choice simply to avoid the worst.

A journey of observation must leave as much as possible to chance. Random movement is the best plan for maximum observation

Each day say to yourself that you are the best, the strongest, and the most deadly. Eventually you will start to believe it. Finally it will come true. It came true for me. I am Grimalkin.

She was not as stupid as some I have had, and better company, but still perhaps her going was for the best. She was not what I needed." "Because I failed," whispered Alyce in the shadows. "Because she gave up," continued the midwife. "I need an apprentice who can do what I tell her, take what I give her, who can try and risk and fail and try again and not give up...

What use are ideals if we cannot fit them to the universe as we find it?” Qui-Gon had once asked him. “If our beliefs tell us one thing, and the needs of real people tell us another, can there be any question of which we should listen to?” This all sounded very lofty when Qui-Gon said it, but in actuality it meant things like, It’s okay to “borrow” a spaceship from criminals if you really need it, or If I can win this tribe’s independence in a game of chance, then it’s worth selling my Padawan’s best robe for chips to get into the game.

Many rulers would have spent the morning complaining loudly about the cold and the discomfort, as if their complaints would actually serve to alleviate the situation and as if their attendants should be able to do something about it. Not the emperor. He accepted the situation knowing that he could do nothing to change the weather. Best to endure it without making life more difficult for those around him.

Gundar's smile broadened at the memory of that evening as he recalled how his rough-and-tumble sailors had stayed on their best manners, humbly asking their table companions to pass the meat, please, or requesting just a little more ale in their drinking mugs. These were men who were accustomed to cursing heartily, tearing legs off roast boar wih their bare hands and occasionally swilling ale traight from the keg. Their attempts at mingling with polite society would have made the basis of some great stories back in Skandia.

He heard Tamara scream his name, and Jasper yell, “We’re supposed to stay here,” but Call didn’t slow. He was going to be the apprentice that Aaron thought he was, the one who there was nothing wrong with. He was going to do the kind of things that got you mysterious heroic achievements on your wristband. He was going to throw himself right into the fray. He tripped over a loose stone, fell, and rolled to the bottom of the hill, banging his elbow hard on a tree root. Okay, he thought, not the best start.

instead of believing that the worst in humans can be found in God, believe that the best in God can be found in humans.

Gundar's smile broadened at the memory of that evening as he recalled how his rough-and-tumble sailors had stayed on their best manners, humbly asking their table companions to pass the meat, please, or requesting just a little more ale in their drinking mugs. These were men who were accustomed to cursing heartily, tearing legs off roast boar wih their bare hands and occasionally swilling ale straight from the keg. Their attempts at mingling with polite society would have made the basis of some great stories back in Skandia.

Once you best a man, never gloat. Be generous and find something in his actions to praise. He won’t enjoy being bested, but he’ll make a good face of it. Show him you appreciate it. Praise can win you a friend. Gloating will only ever make enemies.

...and next thing you know, six of my best apprentices get purged for minor paperwork discrepancies and perhaps an unreported cock or two.

Let’s get something to eat.” It was the best way he could think of to stop Horace worrying about his daughter.

Alice might end up neither good nor bad. She might end up somewhere in between. That would make her very dangerous to know. That girl could be the bane of your life, a blight, a poison on everything you do. Or she might turn out to be the best and strongest friend you’ll ever have. Someone who’ll make all the difference in the world. I just don’t know which way it will go. I can’t see it, no matter how hard I try.

Being a ThunderClan apprentice was the best feeling in the world.

And when there’s no point to something, the best idea is not to do it.

The following morning, before he left for school, he told his mother that a scythe had invited him to become his apprentice and that he’d be dropping out of school to accept the position. “If you think that’s best,” she said.

It is the best of humanity, I think, that goes out to walk. In happy hours all affairs may be wisely postponed for this. Dr. Johnson said, ‘Few men know how to take a walk,’ and it is pretty certain that Dr. Johnson was not one of those few. It is a fine art; there are degrees of proficiency, and we distinguish the professors from the apprentices. The qualifications are endurance, plain clothes, old shoes, an eye for nature, good-humor, vast curiosity, good speech, good silence, and nothing too much. Good observers have the manners of trees and animals, and if they add words, it is only when words are better than silence. But a vain talker profanes the river and the forest, and is nothing like so good company as a dog.

You lied to me, and you encouraged Chance to continue to lie to me. Enraged doesn't even begin to describe my feelings right now. For now, it's best if you didn't talk to me. In fact, moving out of the country for a few years might not be a bad idea.

A member of a guild was bound to support his fellow members and not steal their trade, nor must he cheat his own customers with poor goods. He was expected to treat his apprentices and journeymen well and do his best to uphold the good name of his trade and his town. He was, so to speak, one of God’s craftsmen, just as a knight was a warrior fighting for God.

The Sandwich Maker would pass what he had made to his assistant who would then add a few slices of newcumber and fladish and a touch of splagberry sauce, and then apply the topmost layer of bread and cut the sandwich with a fourth and altogether plainer knife. It was not that these were not also skilful operations, but they were lesser skills to be performed by a dedicated apprentice who would one day, when the Sandwich Maker finally laid down his tools, take over from him. It was an exalted position and that apprentice, Drimple, was the envy of his fellows. There were those in the village who were happy chopping wood, those who were content carrying water, but to be the Sandwich Maker was very heaven. And so the Sandwich Maker sang as he worked. He was using the last of the year’s salted meat. It was a little past its best now, but still the rich savour of Perfectly Normal Beast meat was something unsurpassed in any of the Sandwich Maker’s previous experience. Next week it was anticipated that the Perfectly Normal Beasts would appear again for their regular migration, whereupon the whole village would once again be plunged into frenetic action: hunting the Beasts, killing perhaps six, maybe even seven dozen of the thousands that thundered past. Then the Beasts must be rapidly butchered and cleaned, with most of the meat salted to keep it through the winter months until the return migration in the spring, which would replenish their supplies. The very best of the meat would be roasted straight away for the feast that marked the Autumn Passage. The celebrations would last for three days of sheer exuberance, dancing and stories that Old Thrashbarg would tell of how the hunt had gone, stories that he would have been busy sitting making up in his hut while the rest of the village was out doing the actual hunting. And then the very, very best of the meat would be saved from the feast and delivered cold to the Sandwich Maker. And the Sandwich Maker would exercise on it the skills that he had brought to them from the gods, and make the exquisite Sandwiches of the Third Season, of which the whole village would partake before beginning, the next day, to prepare themselves for the rigours of the coming winter. Today he was just making ordinary sandwiches, if such delicacies, so lovingly crafted, could ever be called ordinary. Today his assistant was away so the Sandwich Maker was applying his own garnish, which he was happy to do. He was happy with just about everything in fact.

And there, until 1884, it was possible to gaze on the remains of a generally neglected monument, so-called Dagobert’s Tower, which included a ninth-century staircase set into the masonry, of which the thirty-foot handrail was fashioned out of the trunk of a gigantic oak tree. Here, according to tradition, lived a barber and a pastry-cook, who in the year 1335 plied their trade next door to each other. The reputation of the pastry-cook, whose products were among the most delicious that could be found, grew day by day. Members of the high-ranking clergy in particular were very fond of the extraordinary meat pies that, on the grounds of keeping to himself the secret of how the meats were seasoned, our man made all on his own, with the sole assistance of an apprentice who was responsible for the pastry. His neighbor the barber had won favor with the public through his honesty, his skilled hairdressing and shaving, and the steam baths he offered. Now, thanks to a dog that insistently scratched at the ground in a certain place, the ghastly origins of the meat used by the pastry-cook became known, for the animal unearthed some human bones! It was established that every Saturday before shutting up shop the barber would offer to shave a foreign student for free. He would put the unsuspecting young man in a tip-back seat and then cut his throat. The victim was immediately rushed down to the cellar, where the pastry-cook took delivery of him, cut him up, and added the requisite seasoning. For which the pies were famed, ‘especially as human flesh is more delicate because of the diet,’ old Dubreuil comments facetiously. The two wretched fellows were burned with their pies, the house was ordered to be demolished, and in its place was built a kind of expiatory pyramid, with the figure of the dog on one of its faces. The pyramid was there until 1861. But this is where the story takes another turn and joins the very best of black comedy. For the considerable number of ecclesiastics who had unwittingly consumed human flesh were not only guilty before God of the very venial sin of greed; they were automatically excommunicated! A grand council was held under the aegis of several bishops and it was decided to send to Avignon, where Pope Clement VI resided, a delegation of prelates with a view to securing the rescindment if not of the Christian interdiction against cannibalism then at least of the torments of hell that faced the inadvertent cannibals. The delegation set off, with a tidy sum of money, bare-footed, bearing candles and singing psalms. But the roads of that time were not very safe and doubtless strewn with temptation. Anyway, the fact is that Clement VI never saw any sign of the penitents, and with good reason.

The 1890s were apprentice years for Yeats. Though he played with Indian and Irish mythology, his symbolism really developed later. The decade was for him, as a poet, the years of lyric, of the Rhymers’ Club, of those contemporaries whom he dubbed the ‘tragic generation’. ‘I have known twelve men who killed themselves,’ Arthur Symons looked back from his middle-aged madness, reflecting on the decade of which he was the doyen. The writers and artists of the period lived hectically and recklessly. Ernest Dowson (1867–1900) (one of the best lyricists of them all – ‘I cried for madder music and for stronger wine’) died from consumption at thirty-two; Lionel Johnson (1867–1902), a dipsomaniac, died aged thirty-five from a stroke. John Davidson committed suicide at fifty-two; Oscar Wilde, disgraced and broken by prison and exile, died at forty-six; Aubrey Beardsley died at twenty-six. This is not to mention the minor figures of the Nineties literary scene: William Theodore Peters, actor and poet, who starved to death in Paris; Hubert Crankanthorpe, who threw himself in the Thames; Henry Harland, editor of The Yellow Book, who died of consumption aged forty-three, or Francis Thompson, who fled the Hound of Heaven ‘down the nights and down the days’ and who died of the same disease aged forty-eight. Charles Conder (1868–1909), water-colourist and rococo fan-painter, died in an asylum aged forty-one.

With all due respect to you, sir, you can all go piss up a rope,” Steve said. That brought a lot of gasps and exclamations. He forged ahead as if they hadn’t said a word. “You people are the best the Conclave has to offer? I’d rather eat broken glass than listen to you.” “Those are some harsh words, young man,” Moon said. “You mind explaining yourself?” “All this week, I’ve seen Chance bust his ass to do what you people are supposed to be doing!” Steve said, his finger pointing at the Council. “He’s been looking for a girl who was kidnapped by a vampire, trying to keep his own family safe from the guy who took her, and looking for this sword. While he’s trying to do all that, he’s under this Ordeal, trying to prove himself to you so you don’t kill him! And tonight? When it came down to saving his own ass or helping someone else, he chose to save his friend and twelve other kids: kids you should have been looking for, instead of sitting on your lazy butts judging my friend. If you ask me, he shouldn’t have had to choose between kissing your collective ass to save his own life and doing the right thing. He did the right thing even when you might have killed him for it, and frankly, I’ll follow his example over yours any day of the week.” In the silence that followed his rant, I looked at him with a new respect. “I believe,” Moon said after a few moments, “that we’ve been rebuked, Master Draeden.” “Justly so,” Draeden said

I WANT TO end this list by talking a little more about the founding of Pixar University and Elyse Klaidman’s mind-expanding drawing classes in particular. Those first classes were such a success—of the 120 people who worked at Pixar then, 100 enrolled—that we gradually began expanding P.U.’s curriculum. Sculpting, painting, acting, meditation, belly dancing, live-action filmmaking, computer programming, design and color theory, ballet—over the years, we have offered free classes in all of them. This meant spending not only the time to find the best outside teachers but also the real cost of freeing people up during their workday to take the classes. So what exactly was Pixar getting out of all of this? It wasn’t that the class material directly enhanced our employees’ job performance. Instead, there was something about an apprentice lighting technician sitting alongside an experienced animator, who in turn was sitting next to someone who worked in legal or accounting or security—that proved immensely valuable. In the classroom setting, people interacted in a way they didn’t in the workplace. They felt free to be goofy, relaxed, open, vulnerable. Hierarchy did not apply, and as a result, communication thrived. Simply by providing an excuse for us all to toil side by side, humbled by the challenge of sketching a self-portrait or writing computer code or taming a lump of clay, P.U. changed the culture for the better. It taught everyone at Pixar, no matter their title, to respect the work that their colleagues did. And it made us all beginners again. Creativity involves missteps and imperfections. I wanted our people to get comfortable with that idea—that both the organization and its members should be willing, at times, to operate on the edge. I can understand that the leaders of many companies might wonder whether or not such classes would truly be useful, worth the expense. And I’ll admit that these social interactions I describe were an unexpected benefit. But the purpose of P.U. was never to turn programmers into artists or artists into belly dancers. Instead, it was to send a signal about how important it is for every one of us to keep learning new things. That, too, is a key part of remaining flexible: keeping our brains nimble by pushing ourselves to try things we haven’t tried before. That’s what P.U. lets our people do, and I believe it makes us stronger.

Why?” A simple question unlocks best,

But Stanley persisted in the kitchen, performing the small yet demanding apprentice's tasks she set for him- removing the skin from piles of almonds, grating snowy hills of lemon zest, the nightly sweeping of the kitchen floor and sponging of metal shelves. He didn't seem to mind: every day after school, he'd lean over the counter, watching her experiment with combinations- shifting flavors like the beads in a kaleidoscope- burnt sugar, hibiscus, rum, espresso, pear: dessert as a metaphor for something unresolvable. It was nothing like the slapdashery of cooking. Baking, to Avis, was no less precise than chemistry: an exquisite transfiguration. Every night, she lingered in the kitchen, analyzing her work, jotting notes, describing the way ingredients nestled: a slim layer of black chocolate hidden at the bottom of a praline tart, the essence of lavender stirred into a bowl of preserved wild blueberries. Stanley listened to his mother think out loud: he asked her questions and made suggestions- like mounding lemon meringue between layers of crisp pecan wafers- such a success that her corporate customers ordered it for banquets and company retreats. On the day Avis is thinking of, she sat in the den where they watched TV, letting her hand swim over the silk of her daughter's hair, imagining a dessert pistou of blackberry, creme fraiche, and nutmeg, in which floated tiny vanilla croutons. Felice was her audience, Avis's picky eater- difficult to please. Her "favorites" changed capriciously and at times, it seemed, deliberately, so that after Avis set out what once had been, in Felice's words, "the best ever"- say, a miniature roulade Pavlova with billows of cream and fresh kumquat- Felice would announce that she was now "tired" of kumquats.

Ik ben op zoek naar een stel sterke kerels die van een potje vechten houden. Ik wil namelijk een kasteel plunderen, en ik heb begrepen dat jullie daar best goed in zijn. - Will, tegen de Skandiërs

So you’ve lost your best suspect,’ said Cadfael thoughtfully. ‘The only one I had. And not sorry, so far as the fool himself is concerned, that he should turn out to be blameless. Well, short of murder, at least,’ Hugh corrected himself. ‘But contenders were thin on the ground from the start. And what follows now?’ ‘What follows,’ said Cadfael, ‘is that I tell you what I’ve come to tell you, for with even Conan removed from the field it becomes more substantial even than I thought. And then, if you agree, we might drain Conan dry of everything he knows, to the last drop, before you turn him loose. I can’t be sure, even, that anyone has so much as mentioned to you the box that Elave brought home for the girl, by way of a dowry? From the old man, before he died in France?’ ‘Yes,’ said Hugh wonderingly, ‘it was mentioned. Jevan told me, by way of accounting for Conan’s wanting to get rid of Elave. He liked the daughter, did Conan, in a cool sort of way, but he began to like her much better when she had a dowry to bring with her. So says Jevan. But that’s all I know of it. Why? How does the box have any bearing on the murder?’ ‘I have been baffled from the start,’ said Cadfael, ‘by the absence of motive. Revenge, said everyone, pointing the finger at Elave, but when that was blown clear away by young Father Eadmer, what was left? Conan may have been eager to prevent Aldwin from

Have a mentor, but choose carefully. You want to learn from a professional, not a con artist. Once you find this kind of salesperson, ask her to take you on as an apprentice/ understudy. Make a lunch date, and ask what are the techniques that work best. Even if this super salesperson isn’t in your particular field, her knowledge would surely transfer to your line of work. WEEK 7 LEADERSHIP | FRIDAY Very few companies have meaningful evaluation systems in place.

I believe in the reality of ideas in themselves. Imagination is my most coveted possession. I think the theories we develop to describe Nature are really couched attempts to understand the limits of our own consciousness. As such I think looking within ourselves and meditating on the silence we find there is the best way to understand the reality around us. I think we as a creative and inquisitive species thrive when we all share our unique explorations and communicate with each other with empathy and a willingness to learn something new. I think it is openness that leads us to love, of ourselves and each other. And I think everyone has a part of Truth to share, but communication is tricky, so it's good to be encouraging of others so that we can be brought to see in a new and equally worthwhile light. I think the value of artists is that they've taken it upon themselves to master mediums of communication. That's what I wish to do, but I'm still an apprentice.

We are intimately linked in this harvest work. Anyone who accepts what you do, accepts me, the One who sent you. Anyone who accepts what I do accepts my Father, who sent me. Accepting a messenger of God is as good as being God’s messenger. Accepting someone’s help is as good as giving someone help. This is a large work I’ve called you into, but don’t be overwhelmed by it. It’s best to start small. Give a cool cup of water to someone who is thirsty, for instance. The smallest act of giving or receiving makes you a true apprentice. You won’t lose out on a thing.

So those who hear me and do what I say are like those intelligent people who build their homes on solid rock, where rain and floods and winds cannot shake them. MATT. 7:24–25 Train them to do everything I have told you. MATT. 28:20 The Course of Studies in the Master Class These words from Jesus show that it must be possible to hear and do what he said. It also must be possible to train his apprentices in such a way that they routinely do everything he said was best.

Walking alongside his apprentice’s horse, Sethil Longmere, magus of the Third Circle, Magi Master of Dormir’s army, and a man who had seen more years than most men could count, did his best to keep his apprentice Rousche from falling off his gelding. The dun horse had a sure foot and a good temper, but it seemed unlikely the animal was used to a grown man lying face first in its mane, legs sprawled behind, dangling with each step.

So, what did you tell him?” “I . . . I told him that I . . . I was fond of him, but I saw . . . no future in romance between us,” she coughed out.  “That my heart was not invested in him.” “Well, that might explain his sudden departure,” I agreed, a few things from our brief, tense conversation becoming clearer.  “You do realize that he would have quit Sevendor long ago, if he had not held out hope for your heart?” “That’s what he said!” she almost screamed.  “In fact,” I continued, apologetically, “he put himself in grave danger last summer, helping Tyndal and Rondal in Enultramar, purely in an effort to attract your attention.” “I never asked him to do that!” she fumed. “Of course you didn’t.  But that attempt . . . failed,” I said, as objectively as possible.  “I’m sure the boy wanted the assurance that his efforts were not in vain before he made any further decisions.”  I knew it was small comfort to my sobbing apprentice, but she needed to understand the truth.  “When you did not return his affections after all he has done to impress you, and you told him in certain terms that it was a fruitless endeavor, what did you expect him to do?” “No just pack up and leave! He won’t respond to me, mind-to-mind, and I have no idea where he is!” “He’s the one who figured out how to use the Alkan Ways, on his own,” I reminded her.  “I doubt he’s lingering near Sevendor.  Or even in the Riverlands.” “So where did he go?  I need to talk to him!” “And say what?” I asked.  “That you’ve changed your mind?  That you’ve found love in your heart in his absence that his presence could not produce?” I suggested. “That he doesn’t have to run away from me, just because I’m not in love with him!” “Clearly, he feels differently about that,” I pointed out.  “Asking a man with a broken heart to be proximate to the one who broke it . . . that seems a cruel request, Dara.” “But I didn’t mean to break his heart!  Now everyone thinks I drove him away!  Banamor is pissed with me, Sire Cei isn’t happy that he’s lost one of his best aides, and the enchanters in town all hate me!  Nattia isn’t even speaking to me!  She thinks I was unfair to him!” “You may not have meant to do it, but it is done.  Gareth is a very, very smart man, Dara.  He’s one of the most intuitive thaumaturges I know, and a brilliant enchanter.  He’s as determined as Azar when it comes to achieving what he wants.  And when he learns that what he wants he cannot have, he's smart enough to know that lingering in your shadow, pining for what cannot be, is a torture he cannot bear.” “But I hold his friendship in the highest esteem!” she protested.  “He was instrumental in the hawk project!  He’s been a constant help to me, and come to my aid faithfully!” “Did you think he did that out of the goodness of his heart?” I felt compelled to ask.  “Oh, he’s a wholesome and worthy lad, don’t mistake me.  But if you don’t return his affections, then continuing to be at your call is . . . well, it’s humiliating, Dara.  Especially when you have other suitors you hold in more favor, nearby.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized there had been threats I had discounted and opportunities to end fights I had missed while I was an Apprentice because I did tend to see the best in people. I did tend to give people the benefit of the doubt. I did tend to take people at face-value. The problem was, there were some people who did not have anything good in them to really see; there were people who did not deserve the benefit of the doubt.

Now, so many years later, Vader reflected on all the Jedi he killed that day. Remembering the stunned expressions of Mace Windu as he fell from Palpatine’s office window and the screams of the Jedi younglings and their teachers, he felt no remorse. Just as he believed he had done his best to be a dutiful Jedi, he believed his actions as Palpatine’s apprentice were even more righteous.

Crow had few peers in the years before…before his transition. But of that latter—change—sufficient has already been recorded elsewhere. A one-time writer of macabre short stories, he occasionally chronicled his own adventures; at other times such work was undertaken by his lifelong friend Henri-Laurent de Marigny (son of Etienne, the world-famous New Orleans mystic), while others of his adventures were reported by mere acquaintances. All of the Titus Crow adventures, in short story or novelette form, are here collected in one volume. They are presented chronologically, as best as may be determined, and along with The Burrowers Beneath and the “post-transition” novels, they complete the Crow canon. In addition to the tales in which Titus Crow is a primary actor, there are three other closely related stories: The Mirror of Nitocris, the one and only personal chronicle of Crow’s apprentice and fellow traveller, de Marigny; Inception, in which Crow plays only a cameo role; and lastly The Black Recalled, in which nothing of Crow appears at all! …Or does it? Only one thing remains to be said. In the light of Titus Crow’s fascination and lifelong affair with matters of dark concern, much of this volume is naturally taken up with narratives of relentless horror. Therefore—it is not a book for the squeamish. You have been warned!

A martini in France is a glass of Martini-Rossi, the sweet red vermouth from Italy. With a dash of gin on top, it is called a Martini-gin. Paul used bourbon instead of gin and added a twist of lemon, calling it a reverse Manhattan. It was one of the best drinks I’d ever had.

Are you sure you won’t lose track of me? I could just disappear in the dark . . .” “I’ll do my best,” Will said. Just for a moment, he wished his friend would disappear.

Maman’s Cheese Soufflé YIELD: 4 SERVINGS WHEN MY MOTHER got married, she was seventeen and my father was twenty-two. She did not know how to cook, except for a few simple dishes that she had learned from her mother. Yet she was willing and fearless. My father liked cheese soufflé, so my mother graciously obliged. She had never made a soufflé before, but a friend told her that it consisted of a white sauce (béchamel), grated cheese, and eggs—a cinch! To the béchamel, that staple of the French home cook, she added her grated Swiss cheese and then cracked and added one egg after another to the mixture, stirred it well, poured it into a gratin dish, and baked it in the oven. Voilà! No one had told her that the eggs should be separated, with the yolks added to the base sauce and the whites whipped to a firm consistency and then gently folded into the mixture. Ignorance is bliss, and in this case it was indeed: the soufflé rose to a golden height and became a family favorite. This is a great recipe; it can be assembled hours or even a day ahead, and although it is slightly less airy than a standard soufflé, it is delicious. 6 tablespoons (¾ stick) unsalted butter, plus more to butter a 6-cup gratin dish 6 tablespoons all-purpose flour 2 cups cold whole milk ½ teaspoon salt ½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper 5 extra-large eggs 2½ cups grated Swiss cheese, preferably Gruyère (about 6 ounces) 3 tablespoons minced fresh chives Preheat the oven to 400 degrees. Butter a 6-cup gratin dish, and set it aside. Melt the butter in a saucepan, then add the flour, and mix it in well with a whisk. Cook for 10 seconds, add the milk in one stroke, and mix it in with a whisk. Keep stirring with the whisk until the mixture thickens and comes to a strong boil, which will take about 2 minutes. It should be thick and smooth. Remove from the heat, and stir in the salt and pepper. Allow about 10 minutes for the white sauce to cool. Meanwhile, break the eggs into a bowl, and beat well with a fork. Add the eggs, the cheese, and the chives to the cooled sauce, and mix well to combine. Pour into the buttered gratin dish and cook immediately, or set aside until ready to cook. Bake for 30 to 40 minutes, or until the soufflé is puffy and well browned on top. Although it will stay inflated for quite a while, it is best served immediately.

Then there is the small, twisted potato that we call ratte in French. Similar to fingerlings, these yellow, waxy, and dense potatoes are best sautéed in butter and peanut oil in a skillet.

Most of our time is spent waiting. A Ranger's best asset is patience.

She stumbled once, then again, on the uneven ground. Then she fell, a sharp stone cutting into her knee and tearing her tights. She cried out with the pain, feeling hot blood flowing down her leg. She tried to rise and failed. Her head spun. Then her stomach heaved and she was violently, helplessly sick. She knelt on hands and knees, retching until her stomach was empty and there was nothing more to throw up. Will, on Tug’s back, towered above her, watching her dispassionately as she alternately retched and sobbed. “Best thing for you,” he said finally. “Now get on your feet again.” Hating him, hating herself even more, she managed to regain her feet and lurched down the dark path toward the cabin.

Oxford and Cambridge had offered degrees with music since the mid-fifteenth century which mostly focused on musical theory. Music was perceived as a gentlemanly pastime rather than as a serious part of a student’s studies. The best secular opportunity for employment for a musician other than court was as a city wait. Waits were essentially watchmen who patrolled cities and played instruments to assure people all was well. By the mid-sixteenth century they were officially municipal musicians who played at civic occasions and were available for private hire. London owned six waits who, from 1548, were allowed two apprentices each. Waits possessed summer and winter livery of blue gowns and red caps. They wore silver chains and a silver badge displaying the arms of the city. The musicians were in great demand for weddings and an important citizen might employ them when impressing

Sparkpelt was flirting. How could she be such a featherbrain? She’d always been so ambitious about being the best warrior in ThunderClan. Why was she wasting her time acting like a dandelion-headed apprentice?

Obi-Wan laughed. “Good-bye, old friend. May the Force be with you.” “May the Force be with you,” Anakin echoed. His voice was serious—almost somber. As Obi-Wan walked toward the waiting starcruiser, uneasiness struck him. This is just an ordinary mission, he told himself. I’ll be back in a week or two. If something’s bothering Anakin, we can talk about it then. But for some reason, he felt as if he’d said good-bye to his best friend and former apprentice for the last time.

Let me put it this way. . . . It’s not the best. Eating the bacon is a little like chewing shards of pottery. And the eggs deserved a better fate.

I, Bluestar, leader of ThunderClan, call upon my warrior ancestors to look down on this apprentice. He has trained hard to understand the ways of your noble code, and I commend him to you as a warrior in his turn.” Her voice was harsh, and Fireheart thought that it was obvious that she was merely going through the motions of a ritual that had ceased to have meaning for her. Uneasily he wondered whether StarClan would be willing to watch over Cloudpaw when neither he nor his leader had any respect for their warrior ancestors. “Cloudpaw,” Bluestar continued, “do you promise to uphold the warrior code and to protect and defend this Clan, even at the cost of your life?” “I do,” Cloudpaw meowed fervently. Did he understand what he was promising? Fireheart wondered. He was sure that Cloudpaw would do his best to protect the Clan, because these cats were his friends, but he knew that the young cat wouldn’t be prompted to act by any sense of loyalty to the warrior code. “Then by the powers of StarClan, I give you your warrior name,” Bluestar went on, each word dragged out of her like thorns. “Cloudpaw, from this moment you will be known as Cloudtail. StarClan honors your courage and your independence, and we welcome you as a full warrior of ThunderClan.

Worth Statement: My value comes from who I am, NOT from what I do. Growth Mindset: Anything that happens to me today is in my best interest and it is an opportunity for me to learn and grow. What Went Well: (Write out 15 specific things you did well today. Feel free to use examples of areas you got better in even if they weren’t the very best you are capable of.) 1. I kept my stance solid for every shot 2. I caught myself wondering if I would be able to finish the practice. Started to talk to myself instead of listening to myself 3. I was intentional about treating the other apprentices very well even when I felt like they didn’t deserve it 4. I chose to take deep breaths before I approached the firing line 5. I held my core stable and kept clean lines in my shooting form 6. I cleared my mind before each release and remembered to focus on controllables 7. I saw Katsuo shoot three tight groupings, but I chose not to compare and focused on my own shots 8. I chose to see myself being very strong even when I felt my shoulder shake on my last set of draws 9. When I got frustrated and wanted to give up, I reminded myself that I am building my own house 10. I started and finished my practice today without anyone forcing me 11. I kept my breathing slow and focused on the firing line 12. I remembered to keep visualizing each arrow hitting where I aimed it, even when my shots were off 13. I remembered to pause and settle my mind and breathe before each release 14. I encouraged the other apprentices by reminding them of what they were doing well 15. I did a better job today of letting the negative thoughts fly on by and not give them power 16. I kept my releases easy and unconscious Areas For Growth: (Formerly called “Weaknesses” but we are looking at them as growth opportunities now) • Keeping my mind clear and focusing on my process even when I am distracted • Staying present after a mistake and focusing on what I need to do NOW What I Learned: (This can be something that you already know but learned the importance of again) • I shoot tighter groupings when I remember to release my goals and focus on my controllables instead • By focusing on what my fellow apprentices do well, it creates a much better energy and environment for growth and optimum performance.

Very nice, Ravenpaw,” Tigerclaw praised the apprentice, his purr rich with amusement. “I can’t wait to fight RiverClan,” Ravenpaw meowed happily, his tail slashing with excitement. “The best way to learn to be a warrior is to be in a real battle!

Ramequins au Fromage (SWISS CHEESE FONDUE) YIELD: 4 SERVINGS THIS IS an interpretation of the famous Swiss cheese fondue (French for “melted”) as we made it in the Lyon–Bourg-en-Bresse area. Traditional Swiss fondue is a combination of melted Gruyère and Emmenthaler cheeses, white wine, and nutmeg, boiled together and lightly thickened with cornstarch, then finished with kirschwasser. My version uses a lot of garlic, no thickening agent, and no kirsch. The cheese tends to thicken in the bottom of the pot (an enameled cast-iron pot is best), and the flavored white wine comes to the top. As diners drag their bread cubes gently through the fondue, the liquid on the surface and the thicker mixture underneath combine. Only crusty, country-type French bread should be used. If it falls off your fork into the cheese, custom requires that you buy a round of drinks for everyone at the table. Fondue is usually made in the kitchen at the last moment, then brought to the dining room and kept hot over a Sterno or gas burner set in the center of the table. My father always warned against drinking cold white wine with the fondue, claiming it would cause the stomach to swell, but I have drunk my wine throughout without any ill effects. Fondue is a meal in itself at our house and is usually followed by a salad and fruit for dessert.

Onion Soup Gratinée YIELD: 4 SERVINGS ONE OF MY greatest treats when working in Paris was to go with my fellow chefs and commis to les Halles, the big market of Paris that spreads through many streets of the Châtelet neighborhood. The excitement in the streets and cafés started a little before 3:00 A.M. and ended around 7:00 or 8:00 A.M. Our nocturnal forays would, more often than not, finish at Le Pied de Cochon (The Pig’s Foot), the quintessential night brasserie of les Halles. There, large, vociferous butchers in bloody aprons would rub shoulders with tuxedoed and elegantly evening-gowned Parisians stopping by for late-night Champagne and a meal after the opera or the theater. The restaurant was famous for its onion-cheese gratinée; it was one of the best in Paris, and hundreds of bowls of it were served every night. For this recipe, you will need four onion soup bowls, each with a capacity of about 12 ounces and, preferably, with a lip or rim around the edge that the cheese topping will stick to as it melts to form a beautiful crust on top of the soup. 2 tablespoons unsalted butter 3 onions (about 12 ounces), cut into thin slices About 7 cups good-quality chicken stock, or a mixture of chicken and beef stock About ½ teaspoon salt, more or less, depending on the saltiness of the stock ½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper 16 slices of baguette, each cut about ⅜ inch thick About 3 cups grated Swiss cheese, preferably Gruyère, Comté, or Emmenthaler (about 10 ounces) Melt the butter in a saucepan, and sauté the sliced onions in the butter over medium to high heat for about 8 minutes, or until lightly browned. Add the stock, salt, and pepper, and boil gently for 15 minutes. Meanwhile, preheat the oven to 400 degrees. Arrange the bread slices in a single layer on a tray, and bake them for 8 to 10 minutes, or until they are nicely browned. Divide the toast among the bowls, and sprinkle ¼ cup of cheese into each bowl. When the stock and onions have cooked for 15 minutes, pour the soup into the bowls, filling each to the top. Sprinkle on the remainder of the cheese, dividing it among the bowls and taking care not to push it down into the liquid. Press the cheese around the rim or lip of the bowls, so it adheres there as it cooks and the crust does not fall into the liquid. Arrange the soup bowls on a baking sheet, and bake for 35 to 45 minutes, or until a glorious brown, rich crust has developed on top. Serve hot right out of the oven.

Each day say to yourself that you are the best, the strongest, the most deadly.

Ilost my left eye during blades training at assassin school. My twin brother did the deed using a clever feint and a quick crosswise cut that caught me by surprise. “Well, Carmen, that’ll leave a scar,” Corwin had said. Then he’d laughed that snorty, snotty laugh that had grated on my nerves a thousand times since childhood. My vision had been too blurry to aim a cutting blow at him, and I wasn’t certain if I even wanted to. He was the only family I had. And despite his laughter, he may not have known how deep the wound was. He often made a silly joke when he’d done something stupid. But when I stumbled and fell toward the floor, Corwin dropped his blade and caught me. “Aw, sorry, sis,” he said, holding me against his chest. Then the healers rushed in with their bandages and salves and led me to the healing room. Maestru Alesius—my master—soon followed them, bringing the bad news: “You will lose that eye, Carmen.” I was thirteen. I’d been ahead of my brother on the honor roll—the top of the class. I often wondered if a bout of jealousy inspired my blinding. The blades were sharp, but we students weren’t supposed to cut each other—the idea was to keep the mind sharp as well. And I’d love to know where he’d learned the move. I’d never seen it before, and I was better with the sword than him. Did he have a secret teacher? Everything was harder with only one eye—the sword fights, the dagger throws, learning to avoid traps; even the poisons and potions were more difficult to pour. A half-blind assassin was a joke. I was pretty certain my fellow students had chuckled and celebrated as my position on the honor roll slipped. I had the knowledge and the skill. But the patch over my eye meant I had a weakness, and the school trained assassins to exploit weaknesses. I’d have quit, perhaps to be a scullery maid or to work in the massive wheat fields of the Akkad Empire, if only to get away from the other apprentice assassins who had once been beneath me and who now scorned me. I especially wanted to flee from the kinder ones who looked at me with pity. But Maestru Alesius had insisted I stay. “Adversity will toughen your mental bones,” he’d promised. His support and my perseverance had kept me in school. Three years had passed since the incident. Three years of struggling to keep my spot. I was finally sixteen, in my final week of classes. Corwin would graduate at the top of the honor roll. He was the best with bladed weapons, the best at hiding in shadows, the best assassin the school had seen in many years. He may even be better than the legendary Banderius. All the kings, queens, and archons would seek to hire Corwin. Maybe even Emperor Rima himself. I’d be lucky to get hired at all.

A friend of mine wrote an excellent article on parenting for Father Apprentice. It was called “Good Enough Is Good. Enough.,” the idea being that we can’t possibly be perfect as parents. We can try every day, give our best efforts, make the great attempts, and mostly we will be good parents. But sometimes we will fail. And that’s okay. Failure is okay. Good is enough. Period.

Smoked Trout Gloria YIELD: 4 SERVINGS GLORIA BECAME PASSIONATE about trout fishing when we lived in Hunter. She would go to the river at an ungodly early morning hour, usually with Pierre Larré, and arrive back home, wet and exhilarated, with a bunch of fresh trout at about 9:00 A.M., when I was getting up. She liked them best smoked and served with creamy scrambled eggs on buttered toast, a dish that is a welcome treat for breakfast, brunch, lunch, or even dinner. You can, of course, buy smoked trout, but we smoke our own. I first soak the trout for 2 hours in a brine made of 1 cup of kosher salt, 2 cups of water, and 2 tablespoons of sugar; then I wash and pat it dry. I spread a handful of hickory chips or sawdust in an old roasting pan and add some crumpled pieces of aluminum foil to the pan to support a wire rack, on which I arrange the trout. I cover the pan tightly with a large piece of foil and place it on a small electric burner over medium heat for 10 to 15 minutes, until the trout is golden. After it rests for an hour or so, I remove the skin and head, and the moist, fragrant flesh slides off the central bone. Smoked trout is best served lukewarm or at room temperature. 8 large eggs ½ teaspoon salt ½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper 4 large slices country bread 4 tablespoons (½ stick) unsalted butter for cooking the eggs, plus extra for spreading on the toast 2 to 3 tablespoons cream or milk 4 smoked trout, 6 to 10 ounces each, with skin and head removed and the flesh separated from the bones Beat the eggs in a bowl, and add the salt and pepper. Toast the bread, and coat it with butter. Heat the 4 tablespoons of butter in a sturdy saucepan. When it is hot, add the eggs, and mix them gently and continuously with a whisk to create a creamy mixture with small curds. Keep cooking for about 2 minutes, until the eggs are thick and creamy but still slightly runny. Do not overcook. Remove the pan from the heat, and add a few tablespoons of the cream or milk to stop the cooking and keep the mixture from becoming too tight. Place a slice of toast on each of four plates, spoon the eggs on top, and surround with pieces of smoked trout. Serve immediately.

Oatmeal Breakfast Soup YIELD: 6 SERVINGS (ABOUT 8 CUPS) BREAKFAST was the inspiration for this soup, which has become a favorite at our house. Bacon, oatmeal, and milk are breakfast ingredients. And leeks? Well, I always put leeks in my soup. I microwave the bacon until crisp because Gloria always does so with good results, but it could be cooked in a skillet as well. Although I use coarsely granulated Irish oatmeal, which is chewy and flavorful, the soup is good made with quick-cooking oatmeal, provided you reduce the preparation time and the liquid accordingly. The first part of the recipe—bacon, leeks, and oatmeal—can be prepared ahead. It is better to add the milk and half-and-half at the last moment, however, for a fresher, cleaner-tasting soup. Finishing the soup with both milk and half-and-half is best, although using milk only is fine. 6 slices bacon (6 to 7 ounces), preferably maple- or honey-cured 2 small leeks, trimmed, with most of the green left on, sliced thin, and washed (2½ cups) 5 cups water 1 cup Irish coarse oatmeal 1½ teaspoons salt (less if bacon is highly salted) 1 cup half-and-half 1 cup milk ½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper Arrange the bacon on a microwave oven tray, cover with paper towels, and cook on full power for about 4 minutes, or until the slices are crisp and brown. Reserve about 2 tablespoons of the bacon fat, and transfer the bacon to a cutting board. Cut the bacon into ½-inch pieces, and set it aside. Put the reserved bacon fat in a saucepan. Add the sliced leeks, and cook over medium heat for 5 to 6 minutes, until softened. Add the water, and bring to a boil. Add the oatmeal and salt, stir, and bring to a boil. Reduce the heat to very low, cover (with the lid placed slightly ajar, so the oatmeal doesn’t boil over), and cook gently for 25 to 30 minutes, or until the oatmeal is tender. (The recipe can be made to this point up to 24 hours ahead of time.) At serving time, add the half-and-half, milk, and pepper, and bring to a boil. Serve hot with the bacon pieces sprinkled on top.

Chicken Salad à la Danny Kaye YIELD: 4 SERVINGS TO MOST AMERICANS, Danny Kaye is remembered as a splendid comedian and actor. I think of him as a friend and one of the finest cooks I have ever known. In every way, Danny was equal to or better than any trained chef. His technique was flawless. The speed at which he worked was on par with what you’d find in a Parisian brigade de cuisine. Danny taught me a great deal, mostly about Chinese cuisine, his specialty. Whenever I traveled to Los Angeles, Danny picked me up at the airport and took me to his house, where we cooked Chinese or French food. His poached chicken was the best I have ever had. His method was to put the chicken in a small stockpot, cover it with tepid water seasoned with salt, peppercorns, and vegetables, and cook it at a gentle boil for only 10 minutes, then set it aside off the heat for 45 minutes. As an added touch, he always stuck a handful of knives, forks, and spoons into the cavity of the chicken, to keep it submerged. The result is so moist, tender, and flavorful that I have used the recipe—minus the flatware—ever since. CHICKEN 1 chicken, about 3½ pounds ½ cup sliced carrot 1 cup sliced onion 1 small leek, washed and left whole 1 rib celery, washed and left whole 1 teaspoon salt ¼ teaspoon black peppercorns 2 sprigs thyme 2 bay leaves About 7 cups tepid water, or more if needed DRESSING 2 tablespoons Dijon-style mustard 1 tablespoon white wine vinegar 1 teaspoon finely chopped garlic ¼ teaspoon salt ¼ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper ½ teaspoon Tabasco hot pepper sauce 5 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil

Chicken Salad à la Danny Kaye YIELD: 4 SERVINGS TO MOST AMERICANS, Danny Kaye is remembered as a splendid comedian and actor. I think of him as a friend and one of the finest cooks I have ever known. In every way, Danny was equal to or better than any trained chef. His technique was flawless. The speed at which he worked was on par with what you’d find in a Parisian brigade de cuisine. Danny taught me a great deal, mostly about Chinese cuisine, his specialty. Whenever I traveled to Los Angeles, Danny picked me up at the airport and took me to his house, where we cooked Chinese or French food. His poached chicken was the best I have ever had. His method was to put the chicken in a small stockpot, cover it with tepid water seasoned with salt, peppercorns, and vegetables, and cook it at a gentle boil for only 10 minutes, then set it aside off the heat for 45 minutes. As an added touch, he always stuck a handful of knives, forks, and spoons into the cavity of the chicken, to keep it submerged. The result is so moist, tender, and flavorful that I have used the recipe—minus the flatware—ever since. CHICKEN 1 chicken, about 3½ pounds ½ cup sliced carrot 1 cup sliced onion 1 small leek, washed and left whole 1 rib celery, washed and left whole 1 teaspoon salt ¼ teaspoon black peppercorns 2 sprigs thyme 2 bay leaves About 7 cups tepid water, or more if needed DRESSING 2 tablespoons Dijon-style mustard 1 tablespoon white wine vinegar 1 teaspoon finely chopped garlic ¼ teaspoon salt ¼ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper ½ teaspoon Tabasco hot pepper sauce 5 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil GARNISHES 1 dozen Boston lettuce leaves, cleaned 2 dozen fresh tarragon leaves FOR THE CHICKEN: Place the chicken breast side down in a tall, narrow pot, so it fits snugly at the bottom. Add the remaining poaching ingredients. The chicken should be submerged, and the water should extend about 1 inch above it. Bring to a gentle boil, cover, and let boil gently for two minutes. Remove the pot from the heat, and set it aside to steep in the hot broth for 45 minutes. Remove the chicken from the pot, and set it aside on a platter to cool for a few minutes. (The stock can be strained and frozen for up to 6 months for use in soup.) Pick the meat from the chicken bones, discarding the skin, bones, and fat. Shred the meat with your fingers, following the grain and pulling it into strips. (The meat tastes better shredded than diced with a knife.) FOR THE DRESSING: Mix together all the dressing ingredients in a bowl large enough to hold the chicken salad. Add the chicken shreds to the dressing and toss well. Arrange the Boston lettuce leaves in a “nest” around the periphery of a platter, and spoon the room-temperature chicken salad into the center. Sprinkle with the tarragon leaves and serve.

A simple question unlocks best.

First, you’re going to tell me what you do for a living.” “I’m an apprentice!” he said. “Scribe’s apprentice!” “You need both hands for that?” He looked at me weird. “Uh, no?” And then he screamed as I brought the heel of my boot down on his hand and heard each finger break under it. I suppose it would have been more poetic to make him swear to give up his life of crime. In truth, I’d tried that before in my more callow days. Enough scars and mistakes later, I learned that experience teaches best.

People all over the world - outside the church and in - are looking for an escape, a way out from under the crushing weight to life this side of Eden. But there is no escaping it. The best the world can offer is a temporary distraction to delay the inevitable or deny the inescapable. That's why Jesus doesn't offer us an escape. He offers us something far better: "equipment." He offers his apprentices a whole new way to bear the weight of our humanity: with ease. At his side. Like two oxen in a field, tied shoulder to shoulder. With Jesus doing all the heavy lifting. At his pace. Slow, unhurried, present to the moment, full of love and joy and peace. An easy life isn't an option; an easy yoke is.

You are so stupid.” Astonishment broke through his pain. Could I still undo what I had done? “I lied!' I spat my whisper at him. “I knew you read my journal. I knew you read my dreams. I wrote there what I thought would hurt you most! I lied to hurt you. For letting him be dead while you lived. For being loved by him more than he loved me!” I took a breath. “He loved you more than he ever loved any of the rest of us!” “What?” His mouth hung open after that word, his eyes wide. He made a stupid face of astonishment. As if he hadn’t always known he was loved the best. That he was Beloved. “Stupid again! Asking stupid questions. Go with him. Go now. It’s you he wants, not me. Go!” When had my voice risen to a shout? I did not know, I did not care. Let it be a spectacle, let all the camp be roused and folk stare at me. For that was what was happening. Dutiful had come to his feet, a sword in hand, looking around for an enemy. They were all half-awake, roused by my shouts. Hap was staring with his mouth hanging open. Nettle’s hands clutched her face in horror at the truth I had shouted. And my father lifted a hand. His face was so ravaged, it was like looking at death itself. Except for the smooth, silvered part of it. By creeping degrees, his human hand lifted. He turned it over, showing a bloody palm. His cracked lips moved. Beloved. He could not say the word, but I knew it. So did his Fool. He rose, the blanket that had draped his shoulders falling to the earth. He pulled the glove from his hand and let it fall. He walked uncertainly, like a puppet with his strings pulled by an apprentice puppeteer. He reached my father. So tenderly, he set his hand into my father’s. Then he leaned down until he lay upon the wolf, his face turned to my father’s face. He put his arm across my father’s bony back. He drew him close and set his silver fingers to the wolf. For a moment all was still. Then I saw Beloved’s fingers stir the soft fur of the wolf’s back. The firelit bodies of my father and Beloved softened and merged. I felt something I could not describe. Like the whoosh of air when a door opens, and then closes again, but it was in the Skill-current, and so strong that I saw Nettle flinch at it, too. Briefer than an instant, I saw light striate out from them. A nexus, a node on the path of fate. Then it was finished. Something finally complete, as it should have been. Their colors dimmed and the wolf’s eyes gleamed. It was slow and it was sudden, that they were gone and only the wolf remained. The snarl faded. The wolf’s ears pricked and swiveled. His broad head turned slowly. He lifted his muzzle and snuffed the night air. Such eyes he had! They were a darkness full of the brilliance of life. For one brief instant, light caught in them and glowed green. We were all motionless, as if a huge predator faced us. Then, like a wet dog, the wolf shook himself and tiny fragments of stone flew in all directions, as if he had rolled in them. His slow look roved over us, pausing at each in turn. His gaze lingered on me the last. His eyes were both hard and amused. Those we’re astonishing lies, cub. And the very last one the most inspired of all. You have your father’s talent for it. He have one final shake of his coat. I go to the hunt!

You are so stupid.” Astonishment broke through his pain. Could I still undo what I had done? “I lied!' I spat my whisper at him. “I knew you read my journal. I knew you read my dreams. I wrote there what I thought would hurt you most! I lied to hurt you. For letting him be dead while you lived. For being loved by him more than he loved me!” I took a breath. “He loved you more than he ever loved any of the rest of us!” “What?” His mouth hung open after that word, his eyes wide. He made a stupid face of astonishment. As if he hadn’t always known he was loved the best. That he was Beloved. “Stupid again! Asking stupid questions. Go with him. Go now. It’s you he wants, not me. Go!” When had my voice risen to a shout? I did not know, I did not care. Let it be a spectacle, let all the camp be roused and folk stare at me. For that was what was happening. Dutiful had come to his feet, a sword in hand, looking around for an enemy. They were all half-awake, roused by my shouts. Hap was staring with his mouth hanging open. Nettle’s hands clutched her face in horror at the truth I had shouted. And my father lifted a hand. His face was so ravaged, it was like looking at death itself. Except for the smooth, silvered part of it. By creeping degrees, his human hand lifted. He turned it over, showing a bloody palm. His cracked lips moved. Beloved. He could not say the word, but I knew it. So did his Fool. He rose, the blanket that had draped his shoulders falling to the earth. He pulled the glove from his hand and let it fall. He walked uncertainly, like a puppet with his strings pulled by an apprentice puppeteer. He reached my father. So tenderly, he set his hand into my father’s. Then he leaned down until he lay upon the wolf, his face turned to my father’s face. He put his arm across my father’s bony back. He drew him close and set his silver fingers to the wolf. For a moment all was still. Then I saw Beloved’s fingers stir the soft fur of the wolf’s back. The firelit bodies of my father and Beloved softened and merged. I felt something I could not describe. Like the whoosh of air when a door opens, and then closes again, but it was in the Skill-current, and so strong that I saw Nettle flinch at it, too. Briefer than an instant, I saw light striate out from them. A nexus, a node on the path of fate. Then it was finished. Something finally complete, as it should have been. Their colors dimmed and the wolf’s eyes gleamed. It was slow and it was sudden, that they were gone and only the wolf remained. The snarl faded. The wolf’s ears pricked and swiveled. His broad head turned slowly. He lifted his muzzle and snuffed the night air. Such eyes he had! They were a darkness full of the brilliance of life. For one brief instant, light caught in them and glowed green. We were all motionless, as if a huge predator faced us. Then, like a wet dog, the wolf shook himself and tiny fragments of stone flew in all directions, as if he had rolled in them. His slow look roved over us, pausing at each in turn. His gaze lingered on me the last. His eyes were both hard and amused. Those we’re astonishing lies, cub. And the very lady one the most inspired of all. You have your father’s talent for it. He have one final shake of his coat. I go to the hunt!