Frost Queen Quotes

I don't mind foreigners. God save the queen!" he squeaked and ran.

he smelled so good a mix of frost and something sharp like peppermint.

So,” I demanded, trying to sound confident, “where can we find this trod to New Orleans?” “The frost giant ruins,” Ash replied, looking thoughtful. “Very close to Mab’s court.” At Puck’s glare, he shrugged and offered a tiny, rueful smirk. “She goes to Mardi Gras every year.” I pictured the Queen of the Unseelie Court flashing a couple of drunken partygoers, and giggled uncontrollably. All three shot me a strange look. “Sorry,” I gasped, biting my lip. "Still kind of giddy, I guess.

For she is a fair maiden, fairest lady of a house of queens. And yet I know not how I should speak of her. When I first looked on her and perceived her unhappiness, it seemed to me that I saw a white flower standing straight and proud, shapely as a lily, and yet knew that it was hard, as if wrought by elf-wrights out of steel. Or was it, maybe, a frost that had turned its sap to ice, and so it stood, bitter-sweet, still fair to see, but stricken, soon to fall and die? - Aragorn about Éowyn

war or no war, you will and always will be my queen

She was beautiful; she was also terrible. She was the Summer Queen.

London Bridge is in Arizona? When the fuck did this happen? Does London know about this? The queen has got to be pissed

Delia was an overbearing cake with condescending frosting, and frankly, I was on a diet.

You hold in your hands my heart, my soul, and my very being. You are already the Queen of my heart, my love, my true love, my only love.”- Kian, Frost Kisses

He looked glad to be on his way and made a beeline for the exit. Just as he was out the door, however, he stuck his head back in. “I don’t mind foreigners. God save the queen!” he squeaked, and ran. Bones arched a brow. I sighed. “Didn’t hear that part? Never mind. Don’t ask.

My queen, his thoughts said reverently. My ass, I didn’t reply out loud.

A king without a Queen." Kian sighed, breathing mist into the air. He held me tighter, kissing me with a heat that seemed to thaw the very snow on which we stood. "You don't know me as well as you think you do," he said. "What I'm holding back. What I'm capable of. You haven't felt it - how much I love you...

And I feel like the Queen of Water. I feel like water that transforms from a flowing river to a tranquil lake to a powerful waterfall to a freshwater spring to a meandering creek to a salty sea to raindrops gentle on your face to hard, stinging hail to frost on a mountaintop, and back to a river again.

When Josey woke up and saw the feathery frost on her windowpane, she smiled. Finally, it was cold enough to wear long coats and tights. It was cold enough for scarves and shirts worn in layers, like camouflage. It was cold enough for her lucky red cardigan, which she swore had a power of its own. She loved this time of year. Summer was tedious with the light dresses she pretended to be comfortable in while secretly sure she looked like a loaf of white bread wearing a belt. The cold was such a relief.

Summer queens are fine and fair, with pretty ribbons and flowers in their hair. Winter queens are cold and hard, with frosted crowns made of icy shards.

My Dearest Breena, They will remember us. Long after these wars have been mourned and then forgotten long after Summer and Winter fairies lay aside their rancor for one another and forget that they have ever tasted hatred they will remember – Summer fairies and Winter too – of a fairy king who loved his queen.

She went to the window. A fine sheen of sugary frost covered everything in sight, and white smoke rose from chimneys in the valley below the resort town. The window opened to a rush of sharp early November air that would have the town in a flurry of activity, anticipating the tourists the colder weather always brought to the high mountains of North Carolina. She stuck her head out and took a deep breath. If she could eat the cold air, she would. She thought cold snaps were like cookies, like gingersnaps. In her mind they were made with white chocolate chunks and had a cool, brittle vanilla frosting. They melted like snow in her mouth, turning creamy and warm.

How shall I remember thee? As a drop of eternal summer, or a blossom of tender spring? As a spark of autumn's stirring fire, or perhaps as the frost of winter's longest night? No, it shall not be as one of these, for these shall all come to pass, and you and I, though parted by sea and earth, will never fade.

Back in 2010, I introduced fairies and fantasy creatures as having silver blood in Bitter Frost and then Silver Frost. This silver blood is what makes them fey versus human or any other creatures. Now in Ring of Ice when there is a convergence of the fey and the dark ones (vampires), you the resemblance between these two race of creatures, which is the next Frost books. After the film release of Bitter Frost of course!

You will always be the Matriarch—the Queen of Hearts. Your hand rocked my cradle, and you ruled my world.

He smelled so good, a mix of frost and something sharp, like peppermint. Lifting my head, I placed a kiss at the hollow of his neck, right beneath his jawbone, and he drew in a quiet breath, his hands curling into fists. I suddenly realized we were on a bed, alone in an isolated cabin, with no grownups-lucid ones anyway-to point fingers or condemn. My heart sped up, thudding in my ears, and I felt his heartbeat quicken, too. Shifting slightly, I went to trace another kiss along his jaw, but he ducked his head and our lips met, and suddenly I was kissing him as if I were going to meld him into my body. His fingers tangled in my hair, and my hands slid beneath his shirt, tracing the hard muscles of his chest and stomach. He groaned, pulled me into his lap, and lowered us back onto the bed, being careful not to crush me. My whole body tingled, senses buzzing, my stomach twisting with so many emotions I couldn't place them all. Ash was above me, his lips on mine, my hands sliding over his cool, tight skin. I couldn't speak. I couldn't think. All I could do was feel.

Hope is a straw hat hanging beside a window covered with frost.

At the darkest time of year, Lord Yule laid down his beard of snow and cloak of frost and ice to illuminate the gloom.

You, Doctor Martin, walk from breakfast to madness. Late August, I speed through the antiseptic tunnel where the moving dead still talk of pushing their bones against the thrust of cure. And I am queen of this summer hotel or the laughing bee on a stalk of death. We stand in broken lines and wait while they unlock the doors and count us at the frozen gates of dinner. The shibboleth is spoken and we move to gravy in our smock of smiles. We chew in rows, our plates scratch and whine like chalk in school. There are no knives for cutting your throat. I make moccasins all morning. At first my hands kept empty, unraveled for the lives they used to work. Now I learn to take them back, each angry finger that demands I mend what another will break tomorrow. Of course, I love you; you lean above the plastic sky, god of our block, prince of all the foxes. The breaking crowns are new that Jack wore. Your third eye moves among us and lights the separate boxes where we sleep or cry. What large children we are here. All over I grow most tall in the best ward. Your business is people, you call at the madhouse, an oracular eye in our nest. Out in the hall the intercom pages you. You twist in the pull of the foxy children who fall like floods of life in frost. And we are magic talking to itself, noisy and alone. I am queen of all my sins forgotten. Am I still lost? Once I was beautiful. Now I am myself, counting this row and that row of moccasins waiting on the silent shelf.

Her friends gathered around her, pulling her into embrace after embrace. Until she reached Kai, who wrapped his arms around her waist and kissed her. He tasted like lemon frosting. Thorne whistled. Iko swooned. The kiss ended too quickly. “What was that for?” Cinder whispered against him. Kai scooped his arm around her shoulders and led her out of the queen’s chambers. “I was just thinking about the good future,” he said. “The one with you in it.” *

If Los Angeles is a woman reclining billboard model and the San Fernando Valley is her teenybopper sister, then New York is their cousin. Her hair is dyed autumn red or aubergine or Egyptian henna, depending on her mood. Her skin is pale as frost and she wears beautiful Jil Sander suits and Prada pumps on which she walks faster than a speeding taxi (when it is caught in rush hour, that is). Her lips are some unlikely shade of copper or violet, courtesy of her local MAC drag queen makeup consultant. She is always carrying bags of clothes, bouquets of roses, take-out Chinese containers, or bagels. Museum tags fill her pockets and purses, along with perfume samples and invitations to art gallery openings. When she is walking to work, to ward off bums or psychos, her face resembles the Statue of Liberty, but at home in her candlelit, dove-colored apartment, the stony look fades away and she smiles like the sterling roses she has brought for herself to make up for the fact that she is single and her feet are sore.

I am mistakes and victories and death and life. I am competent and powerful and strong, and whatever this war brings my way --even death-- I will face it like the queen I am.

And you’re Emma Frost -- The Hellfire Club’s White Queen. I understand you call yourself something of a telepath. Well, “Your Majesty,” let’s see how good you really are.

Young she was and yet not so. The braids of her dark hair were touched by no frost; her white arms and clear face were flawless and smooth, and the light of stars was in her bright eyes, grey as a cloudless night; yet queenly she looked, and thought and knowledge were in her glance, as of one who has known many things that the years bring.

All that time she spent fighting Tehl, making him the villain, blaming him, and yet wasn't the monster of her story, he was the hero. He'd always been the hero, albeit and awkward one.

When someone goes on a long journey, those who stay behind wish them the energy of a wildfire. The power to take things that try to hinder you --- wind, thrashing enemies --- and use them to make you stronger. The power to burn so brightly that all who look will wonder how darkness ever existed in the same world as you." She puts a hand on my shoulder, but her resolve breaks, her eyes glassy. "Scorch this world, Winter queen.

Then he opened the Bible Queen Alexandra had given them and ripped out the flyleaf and the page containing the Twenty-third Psalm. He also tore out the page from the Book of Job with this verse on it: Out of whose womb came the ice? And the hoary frost of Heaven, who hath gendered it? The waters are hid as with a stone. And the face of the deep is frozen. The he laid the Bible in the snow and walked away. It was a dramatic gesture, but that was the way Shackleton wanted it. From studying the outcome of past expeditions, he believed that those that burdened themselves with equipment to meet every contingency had fared much worse than those that had sacrificed total preparedness for speed.

Peace is always possible. It just depends on how much one desires it.

I’ll burn down the world before I let them touch you.

While Cinder walked down the endless black-carpeted aisle, she tried not to think of all the people in the universe who were watching her. She tried not to wonder whether they were judging her or admiring her, afraid of her or impressed by her. She tried not to guess how many saw her as the lost princess or a pathetic cyborg, a vigilante or a criminal, a revolutionary or a mechanic that had gotten lucky. She tried not to think about the smear of yellow frosting on her priceless gown. Kai and Winter stood at the altar encased in the light of glowing orbs, Winter holding the queen's crown and Kai a ceremonial scepter. Together, they represented how both Earth and Luna would accept her right to rule. The rest of her friends were in their reserved seats in the front row. Thorne, on the aisle, held out his hand as Cinder passed. She snorted and accepted the high five before floating up the stairs. Winter winked at her. "Well done, Cinder-friend. You didn't trip. The hard part is over." Kai gave a smile meant for only Cinder, even though the entire universe was watching. "She's right, that really is the hard part." "Thank the stars," Cinder whispered back. "Now let's get this over with." Taking a long shaky breath, she turned to face her kingdom.

O Spirit! fearlessly bear on. Though storms may break the primrose on its stalk, Though frosts may blight the freshness of its bloom, Yet spring’s awakening breath will woo the earth To feed with kindliest dews its favorite flower, That blooms in mossy bank and darksome glens, Lighting the greenwood with its sunny smile.

To fill the days up of his dateless year Flame from Queen Helen to Queen Guenevere? For first of all the sphery signs whereby Love severs light from darkness, and most high, In the white front of January there glows The rose-red sign of Helen like a rose: And gold-eyed as the shore-flower shelterless Whereon the sharp-breathed sea blows bitterness, A storm-star that the seafarers of love Strain their wind-wearied eyes for glimpses of, Shoots keen through February's grey frost and damp The lamplike star of Hero for a lamp; The star that Marlowe sang into our skies With mouth of gold, and morning in his eyes; And in clear March across the rough blue sea The signal sapphire of Alcyone Makes bright the blown bross of the wind-foot year; And shining like a sunbeam-smitten tear Full ere it fall, the fair next sign in sight Burns opal-wise with April-coloured light When air is quick with song and rain and flame, My birth-month star that in love's heaven hath name Iseult, a light of blossom and beam and shower, My singing sign that makes the song-tree flower; Next like a pale and burning pearl beyond The rose-white sphere of flower-named Rosamond Signs the sweet head of Maytime; and for June Flares like an angered and storm-reddening moon Her signal sphere, whose Carthaginian pyre Shadowed her traitor's flying sail with fire; Next, glittering as the wine-bright jacinth-stone, A star south-risen that first to music shone, The keen girl-star of golden Juliet bears Light northward to the month whose forehead wears Her name for flower upon it, and his trees Mix their deep English song with Veronese; And like an awful sovereign chrysolite Burning, the supreme fire that blinds the night, The hot gold head of Venus kissed by Mars, A sun-flower among small sphered flowers of stars, The light of Cleopatra fills and burns The hollow of heaven whence ardent August yearns; And fixed and shining as the sister-shed Sweet tears for Phaethon disorbed and dead, The pale bright autumn's amber-coloured sphere, That through September sees the saddening year As love sees change through sorrow, hath to name Francesca's; and the star that watches flame The embers of the harvest overgone Is Thisbe's, slain of love in Babylon, Set in the golden girdle of sweet signs A blood-bright ruby; last save one light shines An eastern wonder of sphery chrysopras, The star that made men mad, Angelica's; And latest named and lordliest, with a sound Of swords and harps in heaven that ring it round, Last love-light and last love-song of the year's, Gleams like a glorious emerald Guenevere's.

Wait—no, not drifting. Following us. “We have an audience,” I said to Reth, nodding at the clusters of flying insects. “I suppose we can’t make the Dark Queen any angrier with us than she already is,” he said, then his perfect mouth moved, silently forming words, and he gracefully waved his hands through the air in a semicircle. The warm breeze suddenly froze, and I saw frost eat across the nearest butterflies’ wings. They stopped midair, then dropped to the ground with tiny clinking noises, frozen solid. A serene smile spread across Reth’s face. “I’ve always disliked insects.” “If the whole being-a-faerie thing doesn’t work out for you, you definitely have a future in pest control.

Until she reached Kai, who wrapped his arms around her waist and kissed her. He tasted like lemon frosting. Thorne whistled. Iko swooned. The kiss ended too quickly. “What was that for?” Cinder whispered against him. Kai scooped his arm around her shoulders and led her out of the queen’s chambers. “I was just thinking about the good future,” he said. “The one with you in it.

If Los Angeles is a woman reclining billboard model and the San Fernando Valley is her teenybopper sister, then New York is their cousin. Her hair is dyed autumn or aubergine or Egyptian henna, depending on her mood. Her skin is pale as frost and she wears beautiful Jil Sander suits and Prada pumps on which she walks faster than a speeding taxi (when it is caught in rush hour, that is). Her lips are some unlikely shade of copper or violet, courtesy of her local MAC drag queen makeup consultant.

Dusted with frost, the mansion resembled a frozen palace from a fairytale. As I gazed at the white facade glinting in the morning light, I remembered that story I read as a kid – was it Narnia? – about the Snow Queen who seduced the little boy. I thought of the Snow Queen’s palace of dead kisses and frozen loveliness, its white sparkling beauty, twinkling like ice crystals. But there was no happiness in the Ice Maiden’s palace, was there? She stole laughter with her kisses that froze the heart. Had her icy fingers touched my heart, just as they had Sam’s?

For what it’s worth,” said the Veskan prince, raising his blade. “I really only came for the queen.” His mother spread her arms, the air around her fingers shimmering with frost. “Rhy,” she said, her voice a plume of mist. “Run.” Before the word was fully out, Col was surging forward. The Veskan was fast, but Rhy was faster, or so it seemed as the queen’s magic weighted Col’s limbs. The icy air wasn’t enough to stop the attack, but it slowed Col long enough for Rhy to throw himself in front of his mother, the blade meant for her driving instead into his chest.

Hold on" Iko turned Cinder to face her. "Smile" Cinder gave her a nervous smile and Iko nodded proudly. "Nothing in your teeth. I'd say you're ready." Her friends gathered around her, pulling her into embrace after embrace. Until she reached Kai, who wrapped his arms around her waist and kissed her. He tasted like lemon frosting. Thorne whistled. Iko swooned. The kiss ended too quickly. "What was that for?" Cinder whispered against him. Kai scooped his arm around her shoulders and led her out of the queen's chambers. "I was just thinking about the good future," he said. "the one with you in it.

He found his voice first, though it was a ragged whisper, “Thank you.” If I’d had enough breath I’d have laughed. My throat was so dry, that my voice sounded stiff. “Trust me on this, Frost, it was my pleasure.” He bent over and laid a kiss on my cheek. “I will try to do better next time.” He moved his hands away from me, letting me move, but stayed sheathed inside me as if he were reluctant to let that go. I looked at him, thinking he was joking, but his face was utterly serious. “It gets better than this?” I asked. He nodded solemnly. “Oh, yes.” “The queen was a fool,” I said softly. He smiled then. “I always thought so.

A boat beneath a sunny sky, Lingering onward dreamily In an evening of July – Children three that nestle near, Eager eye and willing ear, Pleased a simple tale to hear – Long has paled that sunny sky: Echoes fade and memories die: Autumn frosts have slain July. As a child, I don’t understand exactly what it is about. I can’t read the significance of Alice reaching the final square and becoming a queen. But I feel the sadness in the poem, and, in this later now, I know why. It’s because everything is in the present tense, even though it cannot all be; either some of it has passed, or some of it hasn’t happened yet. The sky is sunny, but it has paled. The boat is lingering, but it is gone. It’s July, but it’s autumn. This is a riddle, a paradox. Lewis Carroll must be either looking back into the past, feeling the sunshine and the drifting boat as if he were still there . . . or looking forward from the present, imagining a time when the sky and the boat and the summer will have vanished. Which is it? Doesn’t matter. Wherever he stands, he feels both at once. The current, the retrospective, the projected, all are written in the present tense because they are all, always, mixed up together. Because, even as something is happening, it is gone. Ubi sunt qui ante nos fuerunt? Where is the boat? Where is the summer? Where are the children?

In the bedroom there is a queen-sized bed, a raft in the middle of a great stone ocean. On the dresser rolls a light bulb that, if held close to the ear and agitated, would reveal the broken filament rattling in the glass. Necklaces rope old wine bottles like nooses, frosted stoppers silence glass decanters. A nightstand that, wen opened, reveals- shut that, please. In the bathroom, a mirror flecked with mascara from when Bad leans in close, the amoeba of her breath growing and shrinking. You never live *with* a woman, you live inside of her, I overheard my father say to my brother once, and it was, indeed, as if, when peering into the mirror, you were blinking out through her thickly fringed eyes.

Okay, so I shouldn't have fucked with her on the introduction thing. Writing nothing except, Saturday night. You and me. Driving lessons and hot sex ... in her notebook probably wasn't the smartest move. But I was itching to make Little Miss Perfecta stumble in her introduction of me. And stumbling she is. "Miss Ellis?" I watch in amusement as Perfection herself looks up at Peterson. Oh, she's good. This partner of mine knows how to hide her true emotions, something I recognize because I do it all the time. "Yes?" Brittany says, tilting her head and smiling like a beauty queen. I wonder if that smile has ever gotten her out of a speeding ticket. "It's your turn. Introduce Alex to the class." I lean an elbow on the lab table, waiting for an introduction she has to either make up or fess up she knows less than crap about me. She glances at my comfortable position and I can tell from her deer-in-the-headlights look I've stumped her. "This is Alejandro Fuentes," she starts, her voice hitching the slightest bit. My temper flares at the mention of my given name, but I keep a cool facade as she continues with a made-up introduction. "When he wasn't hanging out on street corners and harassing innocent people this summer, he toured the inside of jails around the city, if you know what I mean. And he has a secret desire nobody would ever guess." The room suddenly becomes quiet. Even Peterson straightens to attention. Hell, even I'm listening like the words coming out of Brittany's lying, pink-frosted lips are gospel. "His secret desire," she continues, "is to go to college and become a chemistry teacher, like you, Mrs. Peterson." Yeah, right. I look over at my friend Isa, who seems amused that a white girl isn't afraid of giving me smack in front of the entire class. Brittany flashes me a triumphant smile, thinking she's won this round. Guess again, gringa. I sit up in my chair while the class remains silent. "This is Brittany Ellis," I say, all eyes now focused on me. "This summer she went to the mall, bought new clothes so she could expand her wardrobe, and spent her daddy's money on plastic surgery to enhance her, ahem, assets." It might not be what she wrote, but it's probably close enough to the truth. Unlike her introduction of me. Chuckles come from mis cuates in the back of the class, and Brittany is as stiff as a board beside me, as if my words hurt her precious ego. Brittany Ellis is used to people fawning all over her and she could use a little wake-up call. I'm actually doing her a favor. Little does she know I'm not finished with her intro. "Her secret desire," I add, getting the same reaction as she did during her introduction, "is to date a Mexicano before she graduates." As expected, my words are met by comments and low whistles from the back of the room. "Way to go, Fuentes," my friend Lucky barks out. "I'll date you, mamacita, " another says. I give a high five to another Latino Blood named Marcus sitting behind me just as I catch Isa shaking her head as if I did something wrong. What? I'm just having a little fun with a rich girl from the north side. Brittany's gaze shifts from Colin to me. I take one look at Colin and with my eyes tell him game on. Colin's face instantly turns bright red, resembling a chile pepper. I have definitely invaded his territory.

The boys who have done you harm are surrounded by girls you will choose never to be. girls who are disgusting, who bleed and weep and wail. Girls who spend too much time in the bathroom. Girls who are never ready on time. Girls who titter, who are soft, who wear pretty clothes that are easily dirties, girls in hoop earrings and perfect wings of black eyeliner, girls who don't know what's cool. Girls who read the wrong books, twirl their hair around, are pursued, are hunted. You will remake yourself into something else: a boys' girl, a tough girl, a girl without needs or feelings, a girl who wisecracks and drinks whiskey in the backseat of cars, a girl cool as the first frost in winter, a girl so totally unlike other girls. If you cannot be loved and safe, you will be clever, mean, a girl as vicious as the serrated edge of a hunting knife. If you cannot be pretty, you will disdain beauty and its trappings. If you cannot be heard, you will be silent on purpose. You will find your knights again, a different set of boys, this time united against a common enemy: the softness and fragility of girls, of anything girlish within you, of anything girlish in any other girl. Against girls who are sad and silly and weeping (you don't cry), girls who complain (you protest nothing), girls who make demands (you never ask). This time, however, you will not be queen. Some of these boys will never even know your name.

THERE WAS ANOTHER, much bigger risk we took that first season. Based on a literal back-of-a-napkin pitch at a restaurant in Hollywood, ABC’s head of drama had given the go-ahead to a pilot from David Lynch, by then famous for his cult films Eraserhead and Blue Velvet, and the screenwriter and novelist Mark Frost. It was a surreal, meandering drama about the murder of a prom queen, Laura Palmer, in the fictional Pacific Northwest town of Twin Peaks. David directed the two-hour pilot, which I vividly remember watching for the first time and thinking, This is unlike anything I’ve ever seen and we have to do this.

We have a farewell in Summer," she says in a tone I haven't heard from her in a while - the veil of potential neutrality. "When someone goes on a long journey, those who stay behind wish them the energy of a wildfire. The power to take things that try to hinder you - wind, thrashing enemies - and use them to make you stronger. The power to burn so brightly that all who look will wonder how darkness ever existed in the same world as you." She puts her hand on my shoulder, but her resolve breaks, her eyes glassy. "Scorch this world, Winter Queen.

Like the ancient trees surrounding us, your love will endure times of storm and serenity, weathering the fiercest winds of adversity, and enjoying the gentle breezes of peace. Your love will prevail through times of sun and frost, basking in our warmest, brightest days, and enduring the icy touches of our hardest nights. And your love will stand strong through drought and abundance, through parched summers and bountiful springs, growing deeper with each passing year.

She kept her chin high, the portrait of queenly arrogance.

You don’t have it. You are my future son-in-law now, Prince. I forbid you from breaking the law and crossing the gate. That is why I came to tell you myself.” The Queene’s cruel lips tipped down. “Lord Gwess’s second son was hardly worth having around to begin with. He had measly half-power and an obnoxious laugh.” Something snapped in Cress’s chest. “The High Court will demand that Whyp be avenged!” he shouted. “How can I come into power over the North before that human is killed and justice has been restored in our court?” The Queene looked back and forth between his eyes. “That sounded dangerously close to defiance,” she said. “You’ll send them to hunt the human, then?” Cress nodded toward the triad of kneeling males waiting beneath the lantern light. “I have been the North Court’s greatest assassin for over a decade,” he objected. “Can I not be granted this one request?” “You attacked a lord of the East yesterday!” Her voice blasted through the room with the volume of a horn, and frost crawled up the walls. Cress and Thessalie slammed their hands over their ears; the kneeling assassins by the lanterns went rigid. The Queene’s eyes narrowed. “The High Court will conspire against you if you disobey me. And no, I will not be sending your brother assassins after the human, either. There are more important things approaching in the new faeborn year—like the wedding. As I said, we will send an assassin to kill the human for breaking a fairy law in due time.

Jack Frost,” she said. “Where are the fairies from the festival?” asked Kirsty, gazing around. The throne room was empty apart from one spindly frog footman. “They have gone back to Mermicorn Island,” said the queen. “I am not sure why.” “Perhaps we had better go to the island too,” said Rachel. “Perhaps,” said the queen. “I’m not sure. The only thing I know is that I won’t be able to give advice

I answered. “You will be the Queen’s Consort. Or the Prince Consort. Two versions of the same thing. It’s an official position. You’d be generally known as Prince Sinclair and would be referred to as Your Highness

BOOKS BY SARAH J. MAAS THE COURT OF THORNS AND ROSES SERIES A Court of Thorns and Roses A Court of Mist and Fury A Court of Wings and Ruin A Court of Frost and Starlight A Court of Silver Flames A Court of Thorns and Roses Coloring Book THE CRESCENT CITY SERIES House of Earth and Blood House of Sky and Breath House of Flame and Shadow THE THRONE OF GLASS SERIES The Assassin’s Blade Throne of Glass Crown of Midnight Heir of Fire Queen of Shadows Empire of Storms Tower of Dawn Kingdom of Ash The Throne of Glass Coloring Book

And for the first time since Norivun had taken me from my village four months ago, I truly felt like a queen ascending to her destined throne.

Cassian clenched his jaw. And didn’t bother to restrain himself when he said, “I’m tired of playing these bullshit games.” She kept her chin high, the portrait of queenly arrogance. “I’m not.

And you said I could trust you,” Mencheres interrupted softly. “So I am trusting you, Kira, and letting you go despite your knowledge.” She had no idea how difficult this was for him. When Kira offered herself willingly in exchange for healing her sister, Mencheres had almost seized on it. The chance to see her each day, learn more about her—and seduce her to his bed—had filled him with a primal, hungry purpose. He wanted to show Kira things she hadn’t even imagined, take her to places she’d only heard of, and lavish on her extravagances that would shame a queen. It made no sense; he barely knew Kira, yet something in her called to him in a way that almost overpowered him. The last time he’d felt this strongly about a woman, kingdoms had fallen in his wake. But the darkness of the underworld loomed before him, mocking him that his time was almost over. Kira had a future. He didn’t. He had to free her, both to let her live out her life and to let him finish what was left of his. She came toward him with that strong, fighter’s stride that was at odds with her feminine slenderness and grabbed him in a fierce hug. “Thank you,” she whispered. This time, she kissed his throat, not his hand, and the brush of her soft, warm lips there almost broke his control. He had to leave. Now.

You can hide your fear and self-doubt from the rest of the world, but not from yourself. Put on your ice-queen mask and take shelter behind your own inadequate power, but when the frost melts, the real you will always be just under the surface.

She was simply a woman.

She stuck her head out and took a deep breath. If she could eat the cold air, she would. She thought cold snaps were like cookies, like gingersnaps. In her mind they were made with white chocolate chunks and had a cool, brittle vanilla frosting. They melted like snow in her mouth, turning creamy and warm.

She thought about all the baking therapy she and Char had done together during that time. Usually in the wee, wee hours. Those sessions never had anything to do with their respective jobs. And everything to do with salvation. Their worlds might be uncontrolled chaos, but baking always made sense. Flour, butter, and sugar were as integral a part of her as breathing. Lani had long since lost count of the number of nights she and Charlotte had crammed themselves into her tiny kitchen, or Charlotte's even tinier one, whipping up this creation or that, all the while hashing and rehashing whatever the problems du jour happened to be. It was the one thing she truly missed about being in New York. No one on Sugarberry understood how baking helped take the edge off. Some folks liked a dry martini. Lani and Char, on the other hand, had routinely talked themselves down from the emotional ledge with rich vanilla queen cake and some black velvet frosting. It might take a little longer to assemble than the perfect adult beverage... but it was the very solace found in the dependable process of measuring and leavening that had made it their own personal martini. Not to mention the payoff was way, way better. Those nights hadn't been about culinary experience, either. The more basic, the more elemental the recipe, the better. Maybe Lani should have seen it all along. Her destiny wasn't to be found in New York, or even Paris, or Prague, making the richest, most intricate cakes, or the most delicate French pastries. No, culinary fulfillment- for her, the same as life fulfillment- was going to be experienced on a tiny spit of land off the coast of Georgia, where she could happily populate the world with gloriously unpretentious, rustic, and rudimentary little cupcakes.

In the middle of the table, against the woven cloths upon the wall, there was a chair under a canopy, and there sat a lady fair to look upon, and so like was she in form of womanhood to Elrond that Frodo guessed that she was one of his close kindred. Young she was and yet not so. The braids of her dark hair were touched by no frost; her white arms and clear face were flawless and smooth, and the light of stars was in her bright eyes, grey as a cloudless night; yet queenly she looked, and thought and knowledge were in her glance, as of one who has known many things that the years bring.

All that time she spent fighting Tehl, making him the villain, blaming him, and yet wasn't the monster of her story, he was the hero. He'd always been the hero, albeit an awkward one.

…I had mastered my life; I was queen of my world, and letting my guard down to flirt with him was like finding a chink in the armor I’d forged with great care in the armory of my life. But fire was always more fun than ice, and that man was beyond a doubt the flame to my frost.” -Wini Chapman

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Alas! For she was pitted against a foe beyond the strength of her mind or body. And those who will take a weapon to such an enemy must be sterner than steel, if the very shock shall not destroy them. It was an evil doom that set her in his path. For she is a fair maiden, fairest lady of a house of queens. And yet I know not how I should speak of her. When I first looked on her and perceived her unhappiness, it seemed to me that I saw a white flower standing straight and proud, shapely lily, and yet knew that it was hard, as if wrought by elf-wrights out of steel. Or was it, maybe a frost that had turned its sap to ice, and so it stood, in bitter-sweet, still fair to see, but stricken, soon to fall and die?

Life is cruel. But it is hope that makes it worth living.

There was a reason this trope existed in almost every romance novel I read, and if I believed that the goddess watched over our lives with a sense of humor, I’d believe that she set this up purely for her own twisted entertainment.

I've made my thoughts clear enough on what I want from you.' He'd never met someone able to imply so much in so few words, in placing so much emphasis on you as to make it an outright insult. Cassian clenched his jaw. And didn't bother to restrain himself when he said, 'I'm tired of playing these bullshit games.' She kept her chin high, the portrait of queenly arrogance. 'I'm not.' 'Well, everyone else is. Perhaps you can find it in yourself to try a little harder this year.' Those striking eyes slid toward him, and it was an effort to stand his ground. 'Try?' 'I know that's a foreign word to you.' Nesta stopped at the bottom of the street, right along the icy Sidra. 'Why should I have to try to do anything?' Her teeth flashed. 'I was dragged into this world of yours, this court.' 'Then go somewhere else.' Her mouth formed a tight line at the challenge. 'Perhaps I will.' But he knew there was no other place to go. Not when she had no money, no family beyond this territory. 'Be sure to write.' She launched into a walk again, keeping along the river's edge. Cassian followed, hating himself for it. 'You could at least come live at the House,' he began, and she whirled on him. 'Stop,' she snarled. He halted in his tracks, wings spreading slightly to balance him. 'Stop following me. Stop trying to haul me into your happy little circle. Stop doing all of it.' He knew a wounded animal when he saw one. Knew the teeth they could bare, the viciousness they displayed. But it couldn't keep him from saying, 'Your sisters love you. I can't for the live of me understand why, but they do. If you can't be bothered to try for my happy little circle's sake, then at least try for them.' A void seemed to enter those eyes. An endless, depthless void. She only said, 'Go home, Cassian.' He could count on one hand the number of times she'd used his name. Called him anything other than you or that one. She turned away- toward her apartment, her grimy part of the city. It was instinct to lunge for her free hand. Her gloved fingers scraped against his calluses, but he held firm. 'Talk to me, Nesta. Tell me-' She ripped her hand out of his grip. Stared him down. A mighty vengeful queen. He waited, panting, for the verbal lashing to begin. For her to shred him into ribbons. But Nesta only stared at him, her nose crinkling. Stared, then snorted- and walked away. As if he were nothing. As if he weren't worth her time. The effort. A low-born Illyrian bastard. This time, when she continued onward, Cassian didn't follow. He watched her until she was a shadow against the darkness- and then she vanished completely. He remained staring after her, that present in his hands. Cassian's fingertips dug into the soft wood of the small box. He was grateful the streets were empty when he hurled the box into the Sidra. Hurled it hard enough that the splash echoed off the buildings flanking the river, ice cracking from the impact. Ice instantly re-formed over the hole he'd blown over. As if it, and the present, had never been.

The magic of a fae queen is more powerful than a king’s, and she is the one who will bring life to this land once more.

The deceptive thing about monsters is they’re never what you expect them to be. They’re not always the shadows underneath the bed, but the hero expected to save you. Those are the most dangerous.

Alas! For she was pitted against a foe beyond the strength of her mind or body. And those who will take a weapon to such an enemy must be sterner than steel, if the very shock shall not destroy them. It was an evil doom that set her in his path. For she is a fair maiden, fairest lady of a house of queens. And yet I know not how I should speak of her. When I first looked on her and perceived her unhappiness, it seemed to me that I saw a white flower standing straight and proud, shapely as a lily, and yet knew that it was hard, as if wrought by elf-wrights out of steel. Or was it, maybe, a frost that had turned its sap to ice, and so it stood, bitter-sweet, still fair to see, but stricken, soon to fall and die? Her malady begins far back before this day, does it not, Éomer?

That’s not good news.” I grabbed Sin’s arm. “We’re running out of time. Buttercup’s been assimilated.” “Assimilated? You mean like the Borg?” His Star Trek reference wasn’t completely lost on me, even though I wasn’t a Trekkie or anything. “Close enough. At least I’m starting to think so. They’ve brainwashed her into believing that she is their queen. Worse than that, she seems to have accepted that she’s supposed to be sacrificed.

It could be said that Bethany Anne was fragile. Not like a flower, whose petals shriveled and dropped off at the first hint of frost. The Queen Bitch was fragile like an unexploded landmine, liable to blow up in your face if you crossed the line. However, she could be relied on to operate within the law—to an extent. Baba Yaga was her own law. Death personified. If she came for you, all you could do was hope your affairs were in order before you kissed your ass goodbye.

Men like Luca would never change. He would always be an asshole. But at least he would be mine.

Marcello wrapped his arms around me from behind and kissed my neck. “We can go home if this is too much for you.” Home. That sounded good. But I couldn’t run away and let my men handle everything. They wanted a queen, so it was time for me to get my shit together. Why was it so hard? I could feel reality slipping out from under me.

And how did he become the dreaded Frost King?” Alexus gives me a half-smile that quickly fades to seriousness. “He and a small army were sent to guard the Summerland queen’s gates during the war. Toward the end, when a small front to the north had been conquered, they found themselves battling a retinue of Eastlanders attempting a sneak attack. Colden and his warriors were outnumbered, but Colden is a fury and a leader. His small northern band destroyed the enemy outside the queen’s gates. When it was over, the queen sent for those who remained, to thank them.” He studies his clasped hands. “It did not end well.” “What happened?” “Everything,” he replies. “You see, the Land Wars were never about the lands. They were about the jealousy, lust, and bitterness of the gods. Neri wanted Asha. And Thamaos, God of the East, wanted Asha’s beloved Summerlands. Neri offered his army to Asha and her queen, but at a cost. Not only did he make a devout enemy of Thamaos, but in exchange for his aid, he wanted Asha’s heart. She agreed because Neri was strong and handsome, and even though he had no earthly queen or king to rule his northern warriors, they served him anyway. Worshipped him, even.

It was my fault," said Rosie. "I added a bit too much science.

Well, remember we judge on actions, not on hearsay. Examine what you understand to be true. Start from the beginning.

Frost, stop.” Moon had seen groundlings spank their young before and had no idea how that would work with a Raksuran fledgling queen. But he was ready to give it a try.

He smiled. “I know. And you know I don’t want that. You have earned your place as queen.” “I love you.” “I love you too.” I took a breath. I was dizzy with emotions. Joy, love, relief, happiness, pleasure, bliss, contentment. You name it, I was overflowing with the good ones. “Yes.” He stared at me a second. “Yes what?” “Yes, I will marry you.

What stole my attention was a portrait, set in a gilded frame, resting against the tree. It was of a woman with bright forest eyes, lengths of brown hair. At first glance, I thought it was my mother. Then again, it was in a way. It was the Queen, in her youth. It was no wonder why my mother was chosen to carry the Queen’s egg. Their looks were so similar it was striking.

Her lips were frost, and they scalded him with absence.

Tears are the words the heart can’t find,

I don’t know how I ever called this woman an Ice Queen. Riona isn’t only one thing. Once you chip past the frost, she has a whole universe inside of her.

Im not in his league, Ororo, but I've been rich. Only a fool believes he'll be brought to justice for any crime -- not in a court, not under your precious law. You rather deal with him yourself? Then how are you and he any different?