Princess Jewels Quotes

Up then, fair phoenix bride, frustrate the sun; Thyself from thine affection Takest warmth enough, and from thine eye All lesser birds will take their jollity. Up, up, fair bride, and call Thy stars from out their several boxes, take Thy rubies, pearls, and diamonds forth, and make Thyself a constellation of them all; And by their blazing signify That a great princess falls, but doth not die. Be thou a new star, that to us portends Ends of much wonder; and be thou those ends.

What did she say?” asked Matthias. Nina coughed and took his arm, leading him away. “She said you’re a very nice fellow, and a credit to the Fjerdan race. Ooh, look, blini! I haven’t had proper blini in forever.” “That word she used: babink,” he said. “You’ve called me that before. What does it mean?” Nina directed her attention to a stack of paper-thin buttered pancakes. “It means sweetie pie.” “Nina—” “Barbarian.” “I was just asking, there’s no need to name-call.” “No, babink means barbarian.” Matthias’ gaze snapped back to the old woman, his glower returning to full force. Nina grabbed his arm. It was like trying to hold on to a boulder. “She wasn’t insulting you! I swear!” “Barbarian isn’t an insult?” he asked, voice rising. “No. Well, yes. But not in this context. She wanted to know if you’d like to play Princess and Barbarian.” “It’s a game?” “Not exactly.” “Then what is it?” Nina couldn’t believe she was actually going to attempt to explain this. As they continued up the street, she said, “In Ravka, there’s a popular series of stories about, um, a brave Fjerdan warrior—” “Really?” Matthias asked. “He’s the hero?” “In a manner of speaking. He kidnaps a Ravkan princess—” “That would never happen.” “In the story it does, and”—she cleared her throat—“they spend a long time getting to know each other. In his cave.” “He lives in a cave?” “It’s a very nice cave. Furs. Jeweled cups. Mead.” “Ah,” he said approvingly. “A treasure hoard like Ansgar the Mighty. They become allies, then?” Nina picked up a pair of embroidered gloves from another stand. “Do you like these? Maybe we could get Kaz to wear something with flowers. Liven up his look.” “How does the story end? Do they fight battles?” Nina tossed the gloves back on the pile in defeat. “They get to know each other intimately.” Matthias’ jaw dropped. “In the cave?” “You see, he’s very brooding, very manly,” Nina hurried on. “But he falls in love with the Ravkan princess and that allows her to civilize him—” “To civilize him?” “Yes, but that’s not until the third book.” “There are three?” “Matthias, do you need to sit down?” “This culture is disgusting. The idea that a Ravkan could civilize a Fjerdan—” “Calm down, Matthias.” “Perhaps I’ll write a story about insatiable Ravkans who like to get drunk and take their clothes off and make unseemly advances toward hapless Fjerdans.” “Now that sounds like a party.” Matthias shook his head, but she could see a smile tugging at his lips. She decided to push the advantage. “We could play,” she murmured, quietly enough so that no one around them could hear. “We most certainly could not.” “At one point he bathes her.” Matthias’ steps faltered. “Why would he—” “She’s tied up, so he has to.” “Be silent.” “Already giving orders. That’s very barbarian of you. Or we could mix it up. I’ll be the barbarian and you can be the princess. But you’ll have to do a lot more sighing and trembling and biting your lip.” “How about I bite your lip?” “Now you’re getting the hang of it, Helvar.

Remember me forever, princess. Remember that on this day, in this moment, I love you.

She used to imagine her parents and happy endings she would never have. Now she envisioned torments that were all too real. She pictured one of Cinderella's stepsisters planting her foot on a cutting board - and biting down hard as the cleaver chopped through the bone of her big toe. She imagined a princess used to safety, luxury, throwing the rank hide of a donkey over her shoulders, its boneless face drooping past her forehead like a hideous veil. And she imagined her future self, flat on her back in bed, limbs as heavy as if they'd been chained down. Mice scurried across her body, leaving footprints on her dress. Spiders spun an entire trousseau's worth of silk and draped her in it, so it appeared she wore a gown of the finest lace, adorned with rose petals and ensnared butterflies. Beetles nestled between her fingers like jeweled rings - lovely from a distance, horrific up close.

In the second drawer I find three circlets, each adorned with more jewels. Tiaras. Because of course.

Emotions are unreliable, dangerous, and misleading. Fate is for fools who believe in fairytales. I didn’t buy into the whole princess dream when I was a little girl, and I’m sure as hell not going to jump into the golden carriage now only to find myself sitting on a pumpkin surrounded by mice when the ball is over.

bad as it seemed. Gwendolyn stirred, her eyelids opening a crack. “What happened?” she asked, her words slurred. “I’m not sure,” said Annie. She glanced at the jeweled object still held in her sister’s hand. Although Gwendolyn hadn’t recognized it, Annie knew what it was right away. Someone had crafted a tiny model

BILLY CRYSTAL It’s been one of the little jewels of my career. Very often, still to this day, in airports or movie theaters, people will walk by and go, “Have fun storming the castle!” Or the really cool ones will whisper to me, “Don’t go swimming for an hour, a good hour,” and then just walk away. Those are the really cool ones.

so spoil me baby, give me everything i want bc i am lost w/out your leniency i don’t wanna be a queen i don’t wanna rule i only wanna be a princess &wear the jewels

Glass that housed a lonely soul up til midnight's final toll. A saber from the deepest sea, meant for a groom's morality. The bark of a basket held in fright while running from a bark with bite. A stony crown that's made to share, found deep within a savage lair. A needle that pierced the lovely skin of a princess with beauty found within. A wavy lock of golden rope that once was freedom's only hope. Glittering jewels whose value increased after preserving the false deceased. Teardrops of a maiden fairy feeling neither magical nor merry.

Remember, my darling, one man’s rubbish might be another man’s gold. But perhaps we are all beachcombers in a way,’ Daddy had said, squinting in the sun. ‘We keep seeking, hoping to find that elusive buried treasure that will enrich our lives, and when we pull up a teapot rather than a gleaming jewel, we must continue to search.’ ‘Are you still searching for treasure, Daddy?’ ‘No, my Princess of the Fairies, I’ve found it,’ he’d smiled down at me and kissed me on the top of my head.

I’m not pure,” I said, driving my point home. “There’s nothing clean and innocent about me. I might be a princess but my crown would be made of broken, dirty things, not gold and jewels. I’d never be good enough for Daddy Acrux. And that’s just the way I like it.

Cloaked in the most valuable invisibilities, she’s a seamstress wearing knitted concepts of genius fitted like the elegant dress of a dazzling princess. Yet, no matter how lofty, the messages of her precious lips always land softly with her ability to keep kissing me with the sweetest simplicities.

gleaming like some fairy princess with sparkling jewels and gay embroideries. Her chignon was enclosed in a circlet of gold filigree and clustered pearls. It was fastened with a pin embellished with flying phoenixes, from whose beaks pearls were suspended on tiny chains. Her necklet was of red gold in the form of a coiling dragon. Her dress had a fitted bodice and was made of dark red silk damask with a pattern of flowers and butterflies in raised gold thread. Her jacket was lined with ermine. It was of a slate-blue stuff with woven insets in coloured silks. Her under-skirt was of a turquoise-coloured imported silk crêpe embroidered with flowers.

One," said the recording secretary. "Jesus wept," answered Leon promptly. There was not a sound in the church. You could almost hear the butterflies pass. Father looked down and laid his lower lip in folds with his fingers, like he did sometimes when it wouldn't behave to suit him. "Two," said the secretary after just a breath of pause. Leon looked over the congregation easily and then fastened his eyes on Abram Saunders, the father of Absalom, and said reprovingly: "Give not sleep to thine eyes nor slumber to thine eyelids." Abram straightened up suddenly and blinked in astonishment, while father held fast to his lip. "Three," called the secretary hurriedly. Leon shifted his gaze to Betsy Alton, who hadn't spoken to her next door neighbour in five years. "Hatred stirreth up strife," he told her softly, "but love covereth all sins." Things were so quiet it seemed as if the air would snap. "Four." The mild blue eyes travelled back to the men's side and settled on Isaac Thomas, a man too lazy to plow and sow land his father had left him. They were not so mild, and the voice was touched with command: "Go to the ant, thou sluggard, consider her ways and be wise." Still that silence. "Five," said the secretary hurriedly, as if he wished it were over. Back came the eyes to the women's side and past all question looked straight at Hannah Dover. "As a jewel of gold in a swine's snout, so is a fair woman without discretion." "Six," said the secretary and looked appealingly at father, whose face was filled with dismay. Again Leon's eyes crossed the aisle and he looked directly at the man whom everybody in the community called "Stiff-necked Johnny." I think he was rather proud of it, he worked so hard to keep them doing it. "Lift not up your horn on high: speak not with a stiff neck," Leon commanded him. Toward the door some one tittered. "Seven," called the secretary hastily. Leon glanced around the room. "But how good and how pleasant it is for brethren to dwell together in unity," he announced in delighted tones as if he had found it out by himself. "Eight," called the secretary with something like a breath of relief. Our angel boy never had looked so angelic, and he was beaming on the Princess. "Thou art all fair, my love; there is no spot in thee," he told her. Laddie would thrash him for that. Instantly after, "Nine," he recited straight at Laddie: "I made a covenant with mine eyes; why then should I think upon a maid?" More than one giggled that time. "Ten!" came almost sharply. Leon looked scared for the first time. He actually seemed to shiver. Maybe he realized at last that it was a pretty serious thing he was doing. When he spoke he said these words in the most surprised voice you ever heard: "I was almost in all evil in the midst of the congregation and assembly." "Eleven." Perhaps these words are in the Bible. They are not there to read the way Leon repeated them, for he put a short pause after the first name, and he glanced toward our father: "Jesus Christ, the SAME, yesterday, and to-day, and forever!" Sure as you live my mother's shoulders shook. "Twelve." Suddenly Leon seemed to be forsaken. He surely shrank in size and appeared abused. "When my father and my mother forsake me, then the Lord will take me up," he announced, and looked as happy over the ending as he had seemed forlorn at the beginning. "Thirteen." "The Lord is on my side; I will not fear; what can man do unto me?" inquired Leon of every one in the church. Then he soberly made a bow and walked to his seat.

She stepped aside, dodging him with maddening ease. Grave lunged again. But faster than he could follow she ducked and slashed her sword across his shins. He hit the wet ground before he felt the pain. The world flashed black and gray and red, and agony tore at him. A dagger still left in his hand, he scuttled backward toward the wall. But his legs wouldn’t respond, and his arms strained to pull him through the damp filth. “Bitch,” he hissed. “Bitch.” He hit the wall, blood pouring from his legs. Bone had been sliced. He would not be able to walk. He could still find a way to make her pay, though. She stopped a few feet away and sheathed her sword. She drew a long, jeweled dagger. He swore at her, the filthiest word he could think of. She chuckled, and faster than a striking asp, she had one of his arms against the wall, the dagger glinting. Pain ripped through his right wrist, then his left as it, too, was slammed into the stone. Grave screamed—truly screamed—as he found his arms pinned to the wall by two daggers. His blood was nearly black in the moonlight. He thrashed, cursing her again and again. He would bleed to death unless he pulled his arms from the wall. With otherworldly silence, she crouched before him and lifted his chin with another dagger. Grave panted as she brought her face close to his. There was nothing beneath the cowl—nothing of this world. She had no face. “Who hired you?” she asked, her voice like gravel. “To do what?” he asked, almost sobbing. Maybe he could feign innocence. He could talk his way out, convince this arrogant whore he had nothing to do with it … She turned the dagger, pressing it into his neck. “To kill Princess Nehemia.” “N-n-no one. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” And then, without even an intake of breath, she buried another dagger he hadn’t realized she’d been holding into his thigh. So deep he felt the reverberation as it hit the cobblestones beneath. His scream shattered out of him, and Grave writhed, his wrists rising farther on the blades. “Who hired you?” she asked again. Calm, so calm. “Gold,” Grave moaned. “I have gold.” She drew yet another dagger and shoved it into his other thigh, piercing again to the stone. Grave shrieked—shrieked to gods who did not save him. “Who hired you?” “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” After a heartbeat, she withdrew the daggers from his thighs. He almost soiled himself at the pain, at the relief. “Thank you.” He wept, even as he thought of how he would punish her. She sat back on her heels and stared at him. “Thank you.” But then she brought up another dagger, its edge serrated and glinting, and hovered it close to his hand. “Pick a finger,” she said. He trembled and shook his head. “Pick a finger.” “P-please.” A wet warmth filled the seat of his pants. “Thumb it is.” “N-no. I … I’ll tell you everything!” Still, she brought the blade closer, until it rested against the base of his thumb. “Don’t! I’ll tell you everything!

She found herself thinking about the games that she had played when she was young with other children in the village. Those whose parents hadn’t forbidden them from playing with her, that is. They were princes and princess. Damsels and knights. They built castles of twigs and made woven crowns of bluebells and swanned around the fields as if they were nobles in Verene. The had imagined a life of jewels and parties and feasts— oh, the feasts they had dreamed up—the dances, the balls. Serilda had been so very good at dreaming. Even then, her peers were eager to hear her turn their simple musings into unparalleled adventures. But never had it crossed Serilda’s mind, not for the shortest swallow trill, that it might come true. She would live in a castle. She would be wed to a king. She would be wed to a monster.

gleaming like some fairy princess with sparkling jewels and gay embroideries. Her chignon was enclosed in a circlet of gold filigree and clustered pearls. It was fastened with a pin embellished with flying phoenixes, from whose beaks pearls were suspended on tiny chains. Her necklet was of red gold in the form of a coiling dragon. Her dress had a fitted bodice and was made of dark red silk damask with a pattern of flowers and butterflies in raised gold thread. Her jacket was lined with ermine. It was of a slate-blue stuff with woven insets in coloured silks. Her under-skirt was of a turquoise-coloured imported silk crêpe embroidered with flowers. She

set off on her journey to his country. Then the queen, her mother, packed up a great many costly things—jewels, and gold, and silver, trinkets, fine dresses, and in short, everything that became a royal bride; for she loved her child very dearly; and she gave her a waiting-maid to ride with her, and give her into the bridegroom's hands; and each had a horse for the journey. Now the princess' horse was called Falada, and could speak. When the time came for them to set out, the old queen went into her bed-chamber, and took a little knife, and cut off a lock of her hair, and gave it to her daughter, saying, "Take care of it, dear child; for it is a charm that may be

Finally, still kneeling, he looked up at the woman. Sturm caught his breath as the woman removed the hood of her cloak and drew the veil from her face. For the first time,human eyes looked upon the face of Alhana Starbreeze. Muralasa, the elves called her-Princess of the Night. Her hair, black and soft as the night wind, was held in place by a net as fine as cobweb, twinkling with tiny jewels like stars. Her skin was the pale hue of the silver moon, her eyes the deep, dark purple of the night sky and her lips the color of the red moon's shadows. The knight's first thought was to give thanks to Paladine that he was already on his knees. His second was that death would be a paltry price to pay to serve her, and his third that he musk say something, but he seemed to have forgotten the words of any known language.

CHILDHOOD I That idol, black eyes and yellow mop, without parents or court, nobler than Mexican and Flemish fables; his domain, insolent azure and verdure, runs over beaches called by the shipless waves, names ferociously Greek, Slav, Celt. At the border of the forest—dream flowers tinkle, flash, and flare,—the girl with orange lips, knees crossed in the clear flood that gushes from the fields, nakedness shaded, traversed, dressed by rainbow, flora, sea. Ladies who stroll on terraces adjacent to the sea; baby girls and giantesses, superb blacks in the verdigris moss, jewels upright on the rich ground of groves and little thawed gardens,—young mothers and big sisters with eyes full of pilgrimages, sultanas, princesses tyrannical of costume and carriage, little foreign misses and young ladies gently unhappy. What boredom, the hour of the “dear body” and “dear heart.” II

She opened the door and we found ourselves in underground vaults, beyond which was what looked like a silver lake, but was actually a lake of quicksilver. The princess clapped her hands, and a boat propelled by a yellow dwarf appeared. We stepped into the boat, and I saw that the dwarf’s face was of gold, with diamond eyes and a coral mouth. In other words it was an automaton who rowed through the quicksilver with his little oars and skilfully made the boat skim along. This novel pilot took us to the foot of a rock which opened up to allow us to pass into another chamber, in which there was the amazing spectacle of countless other automata: peacocks spreading enamel tails which were studded with jewels, parrots with emeralds for plumage flying above our heads, negroes made of ebony proffering golden platters laden with ruby cherries and sapphire grapes. There were numerous other astonishing objects in these magical vaults which stretched further than the eye could see.

After “the business” (which turned out to be much more complicated than had been anticipated, evolving from a fairly simple affair of Sidonian smugglers into a glittering intrigue studded with Cilician pirates, a kidnapped Cappadocian princess, a forged letter of credit on a Syracusian financier, a bargain with a female Cyprian slave-dealer, a rendezvous that turned into an ambush, some priceless tomb-filched Egyptian jewels that no one ever saw, and a band of Idumean brigands who came galloping out of the desert to upset everyone’s calculations) and after Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser had returned to the soft embraces and sweet polyglot of the seaport ladies, pig-trickery befell Fafhrd once more, this time ending in a dagger brawl with some men who thought they were rescuing a pretty Bithynian girl from death by salty and odorous drowning at the hands of a murderous red-haired giant—Fafhrd had insisted on dipping the girl, while still metamorphosed, into a hogshead of brine remaining from pickled pork.

Lia,” Kaden whispered, nudging me with his arm, “you can speak.” I looked at Kaden. He thought I didn’t know that? Did he really think it was his warning that had silenced me? I had been silenced far too many times by those who exerted power over me. Not here. My voice would be heard, but I’d speak when it served my purposes. I betrayed neither word nor expression. The Komizar and his governors were no different from the throngs I had passed on my way here. They were curious. A real princess of Morrighan. I was on display. The Komizar wanted me to perform before him and his Legion of Governors. Did they expect jewels to spill from my mouth? More likely, whatever I said would find ridicule, just as my appearance already had. Or the back of his hand. There were only two things a man in the Komizar’s position expected, defiance or groveling, and I was certain that neither would improve my lot. Though my pulse raced, I didn’t break his gaze. I blinked slowly, as if I were bored. Yes, Komizar, I’ve already learned your tics.

She opened the satchel. And honestly, fate couldn't have provided a better prize at the end of a scavenger hunt. She pulled out a beautiful, sparkling crown. Her large green eyes grew even larger. Despite the hour and lack of sunlight, its jewels still managed to shimmer and twinkle in a magical, expensive way. Rapunzel might not have had much experience with royal gems or any kind of precious stone, but it was very clear that these were those. The thing was straight out of a fairy tale, what a princess would be wearing when she was turned back from a swan. The giant diamonds were even shaped like swans' eggs. Under each was a round pink ruby, and threading between them was a strand of perfectly round pearls. She turned it over in her hands, tracing the tiny, intricately wound gold wire that held it all together. And there, in a small flat patch of smooth metal, was the artist's mark-- and a multi-rayed sun symbol. The same one on her bracelet clasp. The same one that she constantly painted and dreamed of. The one that meant life and happiness and energy in the personal vocabulary of Rapunzel's soul.

they were both shocked, if not positively alarmed, by an interruption to their celebration. The door opened. ‘Sister, can she be seen?’ It was Mr Wyburd in something too loud for a whisper and less than his usual grammar. ‘The princess has arrived. Her daughter.’ As if this were not enough, a second figure was pushing rustling past the one at the door: for Mrs Hunter it was sound perfume joy despair; whereas Sister Badgery saw a tall thin hatless woman, somewhere around fifty (to be on the kind side) her dress unsurprising except for its simplicity and the pearls bounding about around her neck, and on her bosom, as she half ran half staggered. A princess shouldn’t run, the nurse recovered herself enough to disapprove; and she shouldn’t have a horse face. But Dorothy floundered, imperviously, on. ‘O mon Dieu, aidez-moi !’ she gasped, before assuming another of her selves, or voices, to utter, ‘Mother!’ and lower, ‘Mum!’ Then, by act of special grace, a blind was drawn over the expression the intruder was wearing for this old mummy propped up in bed, a thermometer sticking out of its mouth; if life were present, it was the life generated by jewels with which the rigid claws were loaded.

I’ve had the best time! The spirit here is incredible. It’s competitive, to be sure, but everyone supports each other. I was getting advice from men I was about to go against right up to the very moment the competitions began.” “That’s wonderful,” Joanna said and handed him a mug of lemonade. “You look absolutely awful.” “I showered,” he replied, a bit defensively. “She means the bruises,” Kassandra said. She thought “awful” was going too far, for the truth was, he looked magnificent. He was a bit battered, however, as was to be expected. All the competitors were the same. “These are nothing,” he insisted, gesturing to the livid black-and-blue splotches with which he was adorned, and with the enthusiasm of a boy, added, “I won two silver bracelets. Here.” He handed one to each of them and beamed as they put them on. “Thank you,” Joanna said sweetly and leaned over to kiss his cheek. Kassandra stared at the bracelet, turning it round and round her wrist. In her quarters, there were chests fitted with silk-lined drawers that held precious jewels given to her because she was a princess. She wore them on occasion and enjoyed them. But never had she received anything so lovely as that simple silver bracelet won by sweat and skill in the Games. “It’s very nice,” she said, and felt his gaze even as she refused to meet it.

Inside the oleander square there was nothing, no house, no building, nothing but the straight road going across and ending at the stream. Now what was here, she wondered, what was here and is gone, or what was going to be here and never came? Was it going to be a house or a garden or an orchard; were they driven away for ever or are they coming back? Oleanders are poisonous, she remembered; could they be here guarding something? Will I, she thought, will I get out of my car and go between the ruined gates and then, once I am in the magic oleander square, find that I have wandered into a fairyland, protected poisonously from the eyes of people passing? Once I have stepped between the magic gateposts, will I find myself through the protective barrier, the spell broken? I will go into a sweet garden, with fountains and low benches and roses trained over arbours, and find one path—jewelled, perhaps, with rubies and emeralds, soft enough for a king’s daughter to walk upon with her little sandalled feet—and it will lead me directly to the palace which lies under a spell. I will walk up low stone steps past stone lions guarding and into a courtyard where a fountain plays and the queen waits, weeping, for the princess to return. She will drop her embroidery when she sees me, and cry out to the palace servants—stirring at last after their long sleep—to prepare a great feast, because the enchantment is ended and the palace is itself again. And we shall live happily ever after.

Will you get fat?" the king blurted out at Luce,eyeing her corset-squeezed waist. "I like the way she looks now," he said to the duke. "But I don't want her to get fat." Had she been in her own body, Luce might have told the king exactly what she thought of his unappealing physique. But Lys had perfect composure, and Luce felt herself reply, "I should hope to always please the king,with my looks and with my temperament." "Yes,of course," the duke purred, walking a tight circle around Luce. "I'm sure His Majesty could keep the princess on the diet of his choice." "What about hunting?" the king asked. "Your Majesty," the duke began to say, "that isn't befitting a queen. You have plenty of other hunting companions. I,for one-" "My father is an excellent hunter," Luce said. Her brain was whirling, working toward something-anything-that might help her escape this scene. "Should I bed down with your father, then?" the king sneered. "Knowing Your Majesty likes guns," Luce said, straining to keep her tone polite, "I have brought you a gift-my father's most prized hunting rifle. He'd asked me to bring it to you this evening,but I wasn't sure when I'd have the pleasure of making your acquaintance." She had the king's full attention. He was perched on the edge of this throne. "What's it look like? Are there jewels in its butt?" "The...the stock is hand-carved from cherrywood," she said,feeding the king the details Bill called out from where he stood beside the king's chair. "The bore was milled by-by-" "Oh,what would sound impressive? By a Russian metalworker who has since gone to work for the czar." Bill leaned over the king's pastries and sniffed hungrily. "These look good.

Female empaths who are famous include Nicole Kidman, Jewel (her song “Sensitive” is about empaths), Winona Ryder, Alanis Morissette, and Princess Diana.

Anyway, you're to have four sets- to match jewels, I suppose- white gold, pale gold, yellow gold and rose gold. Can't have your oculars clashing with your bracelets, I suppose. I'll send the 'prentice up with them later. I'm waiting for the frames to cool now." "If the Princess is not here, you can leave them with her handmaiden, Iris," Lady Thalia put in, and came around to take a look at the Sophont's handiwork. She blinked. "Good heavens. That is 'much' more flattering!" "Yes, it is," Balan agreed with a lopsided smile. "Now you can see what pretty eyes she has. Well, I'm off! Lady Thalia, it was a pleasure meeting you. Princess, a delight to serve you!" As soon as he was out of the room, Andie was out of the chair. Picking up the skirt of her gown this time to keep it from tripping her, she ran to her bedroom to peer into the little mirror over her dressing table. The difference was astounding. The old oculars had been small, vaguely rectangular, and had cut across her face like a slash mark. These were large, circular and, for the first time, did not obscure her eyes. If anything, they made her eyes look bigger, like those of a young animal, soft and giving an impression of innocence and vulnerability. The frame, of white gold, was very simple and polished, somehow less fussy than Balan's frame of twisted wire had been. "Gracious!" Iris exclaimed. "What a difference!" "You don't think they look-well- 'owlish'?" Lady Thalia asked, a little doubtfully. "Not a bit!" Iris declared. "Just look how big they make her eyes look! And 'you've' heard all those daft poets, my Lady, going on about a girl's eyes supposed to be like a doe's, or big pools of water!

But then they rounded a corner and nearly collided with Kaltain Rompier. The assassin would have grimaced, but she forgot all about Kaltain as her eyes fell upon her companion. It was an Eyllwe woman. She was stunning, long and lean, each of her features perfectly formed and smooth. Her loose white dress contrasted with her creamy brown skin, and a three-plated gold torque covered much of her chest and neck. Bracelets of ivory and gold glimmered around her wrists, and her feet were sandaled beneath matching anklets. A thin circlet comprising dangling gold and jewels crowned her head. She had two male guards with her, armed to the teeth with an assortment of curved Eyllwe daggers and swords, both of them studying Chaol and Celaena closely—weighing the threat. The Eyllwe girl was a princess.

Romance once more, thinks Dickson . That which has graced the slim throats of princesses in far-away Courts now adorns an elderly matron in a semi-detached villa; the jewels of the wild Nausicaa have fallen to the housewife Penelope. Mrs. McCunn preens herself before the glass. “I call it very genteel,” she says. “Real stylish. It might be worn by a queen.” “I wouldn’t say but it has,” says Dickson.

Draped down the front of her clothes were more jewels than the oldest, richest dynasty could hope to acquire in all its generations, much less a single mortal in a short lifetime. Any one of the rubies in her hair could ransom a princess.

One heartbeat, Hasar was smirking up at her. The next, her legs and skirts and jewels went sky-up, her shriek piercing across the dunes as Yrene shoved the princess, chair and all, into the water.

Does Daddy know his little princess likes jewels up her ass when she gets fucked?

Now that we’ve found the two of you, we need you to come with us into the cottage. We didn’t get a chance to greet many people, and you’ve told us before that we shouldn’t forget our manners.” “While it is true that manners are incredibly important, darling, I’m afraid I can’t come with you into the cottage. This is Caroline’s night, and it wouldn’t be fair to her to do something that I know will annoy her.” “But . . . she’s clinging to Uncle Everett’s arm like he’s the best gentleman in the whole world, and that means they’ve made up from their fight. And she’s dripping in jewels, wearing a gown that’s very lovely, and . . . what if Uncle Everett goes ahead and does something . . . awful?” “Like ask Miss Dixon to marry him,” Thaddeus whispered. “We don’t want that to happen.” Millie’s heart gave an uncomfortable lurch she tried her best to ignore. “Your uncle is a grown man, children. If he decides he wants to marry Miss Dixon, I’m certainly not the lady who is going to be able to change his mind.” “If he sees you looking like that, you might be,” Rose argued. “You look just like a fairy princess tonight, and Uncle Everett likes you, Miss Millie . . . likes you a lot . . . and we’d really rather have you as our aunt than Miss Dixon.” The sight of the three sets of eyes gazing at her so hopefully had Millie smiling even as she shook her head. “I’m just the nanny, children, and that means I’m the least-suitable woman on the planet for your uncle.” Elizabeth plunked her hands on her slim hips. “But . . . he likes you and . . . you like him.

Meredith Etherington-Smith Meredith Etherington-Smith became an editor of Paris Vogue in London and GQ magazine in the United States during the 1970s. During the 1980s, she served as deputy and features editor of Harpers & Queen magazine and has since become a leading art critic. Currently, she is editor in chief of Christie’s magazine. She is also a noted artist biographer; her book on Salvador Dali, The Persistence of Memory, was an international bestseller and was translated into a dozen languages. Her drawing room that morning was much like any comfortable, slightly formal drawing room to be found in country houses throughout England: the paintings, hung on pale yellow walls, were better; the furniture, chintz-covered; the flowers, natural garden bouquets. It was charming. And so was she, as she swooped in from a room beyond. I had never seen pictures of her without any makeup, with just-washed hair and dressed in jeans and a white T-shirt. She looked more vital, more beautiful, than any photograph had ever managed to convey. She was, in a word, staggering; here was the most famous woman in the world up close, relaxed, funny, and warm. The tragic Diana, the royal Diana, the wronged Diana: a clever, interesting person who wasn’t afraid to say she didn’t know how an auction sale worked, and would it be possible to work with me on it? “Of course, ma’am,” I said. “It’s your sale, and if you would like, then we’ll work on it together to make the most money we can for your charities.” “So what do we do next?” she asked me. “First, I think you had better choose the clothes for sale.” The next time I saw her drawing room, Paul Burrell, her butler, had wheeled in rack after rack of jeweled, sequined, embroidered, and lacy dresses, almost all of which I recognized from photographs of the Princess at some state event or gala evening. The visible relics of a royal life that had ended. The Princess, in another pair of immaculately pressed jeans and a stripy shirt, looked so different from these formal meringues that it was almost laughable. I think at that point the germ of an idea entered my mind: that sometime, when I had gotten to know her better and she trusted me, I would like to see photographs of the “new” Princess Diana--a modern woman unencumbered by the protocol of royal dress. Eventually, this idea led to putting together the suite of pictures of this sea-change princess with Mario Testino. I didn’t want her to wear jewels; I wanted virtually no makeup and completely natural hair. “But Meredith, I always have people do my hair and makeup,” she explained. “Yes ma’am, but I think it is time for a change--I want Mario to capture your speed, and electricity, the real you and not the Princess.” She laughed and agreed, but she did turn up at the historic shoot laden with her turquoise leather jewel boxes. We never opened them. Hair and makeup took ten minutes, and she came out of the dressing room looking breathtaking. The pictures are famous now; they caused a sensation at the time. My favorite memory of Princess Diana is when I brought the work prints round to Kensington Palace for her to look at. She was so keen to see them that she raced down the stairs and grabbed them. She went silent for a moment or two as she looked at these vivid, radiant images. Then she turned to me and said, “But these are really me. I’ve been set free and these show it. Don’t you think,” she asked me, “that I look a bit like Marilyn Monroe in some of them?” And laughed.

The Gap Rose was not allowed to go out Aunt had given to her lectures about that her destiny has already written and she ought not to breakout she was upset by window looking out no matter luxuries, didn’t care about Among jewels, gala dresses she lived in Was only gap, she couldn't live without She was a princess in society’s eyes While She had envy of their normal lives Demanding just going out She couldn’t enjoy of her own life

When Madge returned with his mug of ale and a plate of small sandwiches, he smiled and thanked her for fetching them. "It's my job," she said, shrugging. "It's not like I did something extraordinary that deserves a 'thank you.'" "Why should one have to do something extraordinary to receive a 'thank you' for a job well done?" he asked. "It's called chivalry, Madge, and it is not just for knights in shining armour to use on princesses sitting in the castles with their glittering silks and jewels.

...crossed the room to where a selection of implements was arranged on a table top. These could have been mistaken for the trade tools of a cook, physician, or torturer, save for the fact that the surface on which they rested was a slab of polished pink marble, topping a white and gilt dressing table-cum-sculpture, done up in the new, hyper-Baroque style named Rococo. It was adorned, for example, with several cherubs, bows drawn, eyes asquint, as they drew beads on unseen targets, butt cheeks polished to a luster with jeweler’s rouge. It had, in other words, all the earmarks of a gift that had been sent to the princess by someone with a lot of money who did not know her very well.

You must take this. I hadn't wanted to seem forward and press it upon you without knowing you truly wished to help me. Can you sell it? And I'll bring the rest of my personal jewelry along to provide for us on the way. This is only one of the smaller pieces." The gold chain and setting flowed into Sheridan's palm. He glanced down at it, turned it over once and managed not to break into ecstatic smiles. He closed his fingers over the stone. "Princess," he said softly, taking her hand and pressing it against his fist, as if he could not bring himself to let her part with the jewel. "Are you quite sure?" She bit her lip, hesitating, and for one awful moment he thought he had gone too far. Then she looked up and nodded. He lifted her hand to his lips. "You are a brave and gallant lady.

This was a girl who belonged in ballgowns and expensive jewels, not tattered hand-me-downs. This was a girl who brought me, a fucking mafia kingpin, to my knees, with one. Single. Look.

There’s nothing clean and innocent about me. I might be a princess but my crown would be made of broken, dirty things, not gold and jewels.

What’s going on Elsa?” “Are u drunk? Wrong #” “Completely and unfortunately sober and it’s the right number.” “Well there’s no Elsa here. Have you been hit in the head with a puck too many times? I thought you wore a helmet for that.” “I’m looking for an ice princess with the voice of an angel. You wouldn’t be hiding 1 there would u?” “What? Aer you calling me frigid or something?” “U said it, not me. I was just thinking of how gorgeous you looked with all the skating and singing. Ya know.

And though Chaol might have decided against pushing Hasar into the pool behind her, Yrene had no such qualms about doing it herself. One heartbeat, Hasar was smirking up at her. The next, her legs and skirts and jewels went sky-up, her shriek piercing across the dunes as Yrene shoved the princess, chair and all, into the water.

If a fairy princess hired an interior decorator, that’s this room. And not the bad ass kind of fairy princess that lives in the forest and learned to fight with a bow and arrow at a young age. I’ve got nothing against the color pink except when every single surface is drenched in it and accompanied by frills.

Her ears felt pinched. She reached up, realizing that she'd accidentally slept in the diomand earrings from the Crown Jewels Collection. Oops. She unscrewed them and tossed them onto her bedside table, then lunged for her phone, suddenly desperate to know whether Teddy had texted.

On the Thursday after Wallace left, I wandered over to Fifth Avenue after work to see the windows at Bergdorf’s. A few days before, I’d noticed that they’d been curtained for the installation of the new displays. Winter, Spring, Summer, Fall, I always looked forward to the unveiling of the new seasons at Bergdorf’s. Standing before the windows, you felt like a tsarina receiving one of those jeweled eggs in which an elaborate scene in miniature has been painstakingly assembled. With one eye closed you spy inside, losing all sense of time as you marvel at every transporting detail. And transporting was the right word. For the Bergdorf’s windows weren’t advertising unsold inventory at 30 % off. They were designed to change the lives of women up and down the avenue—offering envy to some, self-satisfaction to others, but a glimpse of possibility to all. And for the Fall season of 1938, my Fifth Avenue Fabergé did not disappoint. The theme of the windows was fairy tales, drawing on the well-known works of the Brothers Grimm and Hans Christian Andersen; but in each set piece the “princess” had been replaced with the figure of a man, and the “prince” with one of us.

And Grave didn’t say anything to her as he rushed at her, swiping for her head with both blades. She stepped aside, dodging him with maddening ease. Grave lunged again. But faster than he could follow she ducked and slashed her sword across his shins. He hit the wet ground before he felt the pain. The world flashed black and gray and red, and agony tore at him. A dagger still left in his hand, he scuttled backward toward the wall. But his legs wouldn’t respond, and his arms strained to pull him through the damp filth. “Bitch,” he hissed. “Bitch.” He hit the wall, blood pouring from his legs. Bone had been sliced. He would not be able to walk. He could still find a way to make her pay, though. She stopped a few feet away and sheathed her sword. She drew a long, jeweled dagger. He swore at her, the filthiest word he could think of. She chuckled, and faster than a striking asp, she had one of his arms against the wall, the dagger glinting. Pain ripped through his right wrist, then his left as it, too, was slammed into the stone. Grave screamed—truly screamed—as he found his arms pinned to the wall by two daggers. His blood was nearly black in the moonlight. He thrashed, cursing her again and again. He would bleed to death unless he pulled his arms from the wall. With otherworldly silence, she crouched before him and lifted his chin with another dagger. Grave panted as she brought her face close to his. There was nothing beneath the cowl—nothing of this world. She had no face. “Who hired you?” she asked, her voice like gravel. “To do what?” he asked, almost sobbing. Maybe he could feign innocence. He could talk his way out, convince this arrogant whore he had nothing to do with it … She turned the dagger, pressing it into his neck. “To kill Princess Nehemia.” “N-n-no one. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” And then, without even an intake of breath, she buried another dagger he hadn’t realized she’d been holding into his thigh. So deep he felt the reverberation as it hit the cobblestones beneath. His scream shattered out of him, and Grave writhed, his wrists rising farther on the blades. “Who hired you?” she asked again. Calm, so calm. “Gold,” Grave moaned. “I have gold.” She drew yet another dagger and shoved it into his other thigh, piercing again to the stone. Grave shrieked—shrieked to gods who did not save him. “Who hired you?” “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” After a heartbeat, she withdrew the daggers from

HIS EXCELLENCY Arturo Paul Nicolas, Count de Cassini and Marquis de Capizzucchi de Bologna, Russian Ambassador Extraordinary and Minister Plenipotentiary to the United States, told Roosevelt that some four hundred anti-Semitic rioters had been arrested in Kishinev, and the local governor dismissed for failing to prevent the pogrom. Hay cautioned that Cassini could not be trusted. For all his Italian nomenclature, he was as Russian as borscht, and lied with fabled virtuosity. The Ambassador, who mysteriously depended on his teenage daughter, Marguerite, for social purposes, introduced her around town as “Princess Cassini,” when she was neither a princess nor, according to rumor, a Cassini. His numberless jeweled decorations may not all have been earned in the Tsar’s service, but they were the glittering envy of Embassy Row. When he stood under a chandelier at receptions, he looked like a section of the Milky Way.

Outside the closed doors to the throne room, Sharif the high elder waited, holding a kaftan robe of red silk and velvet in one hand and a long spear nearly twice his height in the other. Jasmine's heart beat faster as she recognized the gold trim and signature jewels lining the robe, the ancient craftsmanship of the spear. These had belonged to Cyrus the Great, the first ruler of the empire. And in mere moments, she would be the first woman to feel them against her skin. Nadia untied Jasmine's peacock cape while the high elder held out the red robe. "Today you shed the persona of Jasmine, the princess," he said, "and step into the skin of a sultana." Jasmine took a deep breath, slipping her arms into the preserved silk. The material was more fragile than anything she'd worn before, and she was conscious that one wrong step, one tear of the fabric, would be rip through history. Yet she felt stronger in the cape too, as though Cyrus were transferring his power through it to her. When Sharif handed her Cyrus's spear, she could barely contain her awe.

Little Red, we’ve been through a lot of shit together. Some of it’s been good. Some of it’s been bad. A lot of it’s been really, unbelievably erotic.” I take in a stunned inhale and his mouth twitches. “I’ve waited, Georgia, and I’ve tried to show you I’m good enough. I don’t know if it’s worked, because deep down, I’m pretty sure I’m not.” Before I can argue, he rushes on, “I know your family still hates me. I can’t buy you jewels and treat you like a princess, although I know you well enough to realize you’d hate that, anyway.” “Heston—” “What I’m trying to say is that I know you, and I love you. You’re it for me.

I love to travel to unpopular places. I enjoy conversing with rejected or unpopular people. These jewels have beautiful and authentic stories. But, our society tends to ignore them.

Oh, my precious princess you are meant for cherishing, and ravishing like the jewel you are.