Sherry Thomas Quotes

It doesn’t matter where I am; I’m yours.

Sometimes limbs must be re-broken to set properly, her heart too needed to shatter anew before it could truly heal.

Just that I have loved you, even when I was nothing and no one to you, when you didn’t know my name and barely knew my face. - Leo

You can live forever for me.

Dreams are not real; but when you are inside a dream, it is real to you.

I’ve always loved you,” he said, his eyes a blue that was almost violet. “You know this.” She swallowed a lump in her throat. “I only wonder whether I deserve such devotion.” “Sometimes people fall in love with those who do not return the same strength of feelings. It is as it is,” he said with a quiet intensity. “What I give, I give freely. You owe me nothing, not love, not friendship, not even obligation.

Love will make you weak and indecisive, remember?" she murmured. What a fool he had been. For a journey like theirs, love was the only thing that would make him strong enough. "Don't ever listen to an idiot like me," he answered.

You overestimate the courage of those in power. They are often more interested in holding on to that power than in doing anything worthwhile with it.

I live for you, and you alone.

Love without friendship is like a kite, aloft only when the winds are favorable. Friendship is what gives love its wings.

As long as I live and breathe, I will be with you.

We will never accomplish anything worthwhile in life if we require the guarantee of success at the onset.

Do not undervalue what you are ultimately worth because you are at a momentary disadvantage.

Fortune favors the brave." Another moment of silence. And then, Iolanthe found herself shouting at the top of her lungs, her voice nearly drowned by the bellow of all the rebels present, "And the brave make their own fortune!

Some lovers were fortunate enough to grow old together. They’d grown old apart. She did not think him any less handsome. She only wished that she’d been there when the first line on his face had appeared, so that she could have stroked and kissed and cherished it.

Worrying about outcomes over which I have no control is punishing myself before the universe has decided whether I ought to be punished.

Every story must have such a terrible moment, or it wouldn't be interesting.

This is the story of a girl who fooled a thousand boys, a boy who fooled an entire country, a partnership that would change the fate of realms, and a power to challenge the greatest tyrant the world had ever known. Expect magic.

He smiled at her. And it hit her like a mallet to the temple, the realization that she was in love with him. Stupidly, dreadfully in love with him. Overnight, she'd become a fool.

He glanced at her. “You were the moon of my existence; your moods dictated the tides of my heart.” The tides of her own heart surged at his words, even though his words were nothing but lies.

The success of my rule does not rely on my ability to recite obscure Latin verse.

He put his hand over hers. "Am I a coward?" "Because you are afraid? No. Only fools are never afraid.

I had this daft idea to come and bury the past. Except the past is not quite dead.

To the beginning of the rest of our lives. —Leo

You are asking me to give up everything for a cause that isn't mine. I don't want to be part of any revolution. I just want to live.

While I breathe, I hope,

For what is the Void but the beginning of Light? What is Light but the end of Fear? And what am I, but Light given from? What am I, but the beginning of Eternity?

A messy business, rescuing princes.

Her Leo, so bright, so beautiful. And in the end, so catastrophically flawed.

Friendship is untenable for people in our position.

To be thought of as the perfect woman for a man isn’t a compliment to a woman, it’s more about how a man sees himself—and what he needs.

At deception he means. Perhaps I am better than some, but every woman has a great deal of experience presenting herself as someone other than who she is, since no girl is ever everything the world wants her to be.

What is it?" she mumbled. "Something that will make my kisses taste like chocolate.

Tenderness, that most alien and disconcerting of emotions, swelled and billowed in her. She picked up a cherry and stared down at the soft, bright-red fruit. “I love you.” The last time she'd declared her love he'd thrown it right back in her face. She waited uncertainly for his response. She didn't even have to wait a second. He leaned over and kissed her on the mouth. “I love you more.” - Gigi and Camden

Outwardly, other than her hair, she had not changed much. She was still more or less the same cool, aloof woman who garnered more respect than affection. On the inside, however, it had been impossible to return to the person she used to be.

Better be unromantic than thoroughly used and still poor.

I try not to expect people to be who I wish them to be, rather than who they are.

Love was not blind, but it might mimic a deteriorating case of cataracts.

Perhaps she had always been a monster, but even the lady monsters of the world couldn't escape the expectations that came of being women.

Remind yourself that you're far more likely to undercharge than overcharge, my dear, because you don't yet understand your own value and you've never been taught to demand your full worth.

He’d gone into their marriage determined that she would never be alone again. In the end, she’d made him as alone in the world as she.

No matter what you decide, knowing you has been the greatest privilege of my life.

You have been all my moments of grace.

They all three threw up shields at the same time, Titus for Iolanthe, Iolanthe for Titus, and Lady Wintervale for them both.

All your emotions were so intense—your anger like daggers, your unhappiness a poisoned well. Even your love had such sharp corners and dark alleys.

You might be the scariest girl I've ever met," he told her. "Let's not be dramatic," she said drily. "I'm the only girl you can remember ever meeting.

It was the beginning of the end. Or perhaps, it was only the end of something that was never meant to begin.

The Castle. He’d seen this expression far too many times during their marriage. The Castle was Bryony drawing up the gates and retreating deep into the inner keep. And he’d always hated it. Marriage meant that you shared your goddamn castle. You didn’t leave your poor knight of a husband circling the walls trying to find a way in.

No," she replied, her voice barely audible. "I thought we might create some sparks together. But now I know nothing we do will ever rival the passionate embrace between a hunting rope and a snake.

Even the boy who cried wolf was right about the wolf once.

Was it possible—was it at all possible that she could come out of her most desperate choice with a man as clever as Odysseus who looked like Achilles and made love like Paris…?

A reflection of their story: imperfect, but to him the most beautiful of stories.

I will keep you safe,” he murmured. He meant it. As long as he was safe, she was safe. But how long would he remain safe?

I do not like the idea of bartering the use of my reproductive system for a man's support...

There existed something in this world that bound a mage tighter than a blood oath: love. Love was the ultimate chain, the ultimate whip, and the ultimate slave driver.

Why allow all the old memories to have supremacy? Make new ones, memories of such luster and beauty that, should the old ones come back, they would be pallid and impotent in comparison.

The prince set her down and dismissed his valet. The latter left with a bow and closed the door. Leaning against the wall, the prince pulled off his stockings. As he walked toward the amethyst tub, he yanked his shirt over his head. He was lean and tightly sinewed. Her little bird heart thudded. He glanced at her, his lips curved in not quite a smile. The next thing she knew, his shirt had flown through the air and landed on the cage, blocking her view toward the bathtub. “Sorry, sweetheart. I am shy.” She chirped indignantly. It was not as if she would have continued to watch him disrobe beyond a certain point.

But I can only pray ardently that Fortune walks with you, that you discover hitherto unimagined strength in yourself and encounter unexpected friends along this perilous path that you must now tread.

You don’t know how to converse. Sometimes I think the spaces between the stars are filled with your silence.

But sometimes the males of the species brought home shiny, beautiful things, with hope burning in their hearts.

I am not "just" a girl - no woman is. And if Heaven has deposited me at this time and place, then I am meant to deal with these problems, no matter their scale or consequence.

Perhaps unrequited love was like a specter in the house, a presence that brushed at the edge of senses, a heat in the dark, a shadow under the sun.

Some things in life were truly difficult. Finding the source of the Nile, for example. Or exploring the South Pole. But falling out of love with a man who never looked at her twice, why should that prove an insurmountable challenge?

The Inquisitor stared at him. “Your Highness, where is Iolanthe Seabourne?” Right here in this room. He was on guard, very, very much on guard. Yet he still felt his lips part and form the shape necessary to pronounce the first syllable of the truth. “I thought we had already established that I have neither interest in nor knowledge of your elemental mage.” “Why are you protecting her, Your Highness?” Because she is mine. You will have her over my dead body.

Because being in love does not give you any excuse to be less than honorable, Lady Tremaine.

They say that when an elemental mage called forth flame, she stole a little from every fire in the world. That would make Iolanthe Seabourn quite the thief.

Was unhappiness really so invisible? Or did people simply prefer to turn away, as if from lepers?

If God doesn't want people to lie, he shouldn't have given the best liars such earnest and innocent faces.

What is courage but strength in the face of fear?

Some hopes were weeds, easy to eradicate with a yank and a pull. Some, however, were vines, fast growing, tenacious, and impossible to clear.

I see you are still determined to not listen to me about not venturing abroad after lights-out.' She sat down across from him at the worktable. 'I never listen to you when I know enough to make up my own mind.

Did this mean he was about to tell her something he wouldn’t normally? Her ears perked—figuratively, since her ears were now feather-covered holes in the sides of her head. He laughed softly. “You know, you are almost enjoyable to talk to, when you do not say anything back.” She willed the water in the tub to strike him in the face. There was a loud splash. “Hey!” He sounded surprised, but not unpleasantly so. “Interesting. You are still capable of elemental powers. But stop—or I will feed you to the castle cats.” She struck him again.

Life had its way of beating humbleness into a man.

A woman who has nothing left to lose can prove dangerous.

Adversity didn't improve everyone - or the world would be filled with men and women of flawless character and sublime insight.

...the hero is a secret agent? Well, who gives a crap about the rest of his case once he has met the heroine. Time for moody angst!

There was a great deal of skill in her smile, a smile meant to make a boy who had done nothing with his life make him feel accomplis and remarkable-vile even.

He did not look like an archangel—if archangels looked as he did, there would be no women of virtue left in Paradise.

God gives us only one life. But with good books, we can live a hundred, even a thousand lives in the time we are allotted on this earth.

And that is why You do not trifle with the Master of the Domain.

I'm afraid. Terrified." "As you should be. As am I. But don't forget, sir," She reached through the bars and took hold of his hands, her own hands steady, her gaze clear and calm. "That I am a queen upon this board. And I do not play to lose.

We are all going to die soon. Do you really wish to waste time being angry at me?" "Yes. I remain an unrepentant optimist. If i see that I am about to die, or you, I will forgive you. But not until then, you bastard.

Trust ran both ways. How could he ask her to trust him when he hardly trusted her? He would trust her, in her love, in her strength, in her decency and fortitude. And when the time came, he would find the strength in himself.

Dear Bryony, There are many things I wish I had time to tell you, so I will say just this: These past few days have been some of the best days of my life. Because of you. My fervent hope is that you are safe and well as you read this letter. That you will have all the happiness I wish I could have shared with you. And that you will remember me not as a failed husband, but one who was still trying, til the very end. Yours always, Leo

Some hopes were weeds, easy to eradicate with a yank and a pull. Some, however, were vines, fast growing, tenacious, and impossible to clear. As she played the music box again, alone in the drawing room, she began to realize that hers were of the latter kind. She would never stop hoping.

Her jaw dropped. She grabbed him by the shoulders. “I think I have formed an attachment to you. You know, what the English call a desire to have symphonic concerts with someone at all hours of the day?” He smiled. “And I love you too, darling.” -Lizzy and Will

How ironic that when they’d been married, she’d never thought of growing old with him. Yet now, years after the annulment, she should think of it with the yearning of an exile, for the homeland that had long ago evicted her.

Sometimes people fall in love with those who do not return the same strength of feelings. It is as it is,” he said with a quiet intensity. “What I give, I give freely. You owe me nothing, not love, not friendship, not even obligation.

She was proud one moment, covetous the next, and then fearful the moment after that. It would always be like this, wouldn’t it, being the wife of a man she loved but couldn’t trust, whose true motives were as murky as the bottom of the sea?

He was a god above her, powerful, beautiful, larger than life. The light brought out the latent gold of his hair. The shadows contoured the perfect form of his body. Light and shadows converged in his eyes, bright lust, dark anger, and something else. Something else entirely. She recognized it because she’d seen it in the mirror so many times: a bleak, austere loneliness.

All right, my hope—but I am not saying the rest of it—I have something you need to feel.” She feigned the sound of outrage. “But we barely know each other, sir!” He laughed softly. “But you must hold it in your hand and feel it change,” he urged, in her ear. “I insist. I can wait no longer.” She knew they were on a serious subject, but the flutter of his breath on her skin, the low drawl of his words—heat raced along all her nerve endings. “Will I like it?” “Well, I do have to apologize for its size. It is rather small.” And with that, he pressed something rather small into her hand.

He felt as if he stood at the very top of a high cliff. Take a step back and all was safe and familiar. But going forward required a singular leap of faith—and he was a man of little faith, particularly when it came to himself. But he wanted her to look at him again as if he were full of possibilities. As if they were full of possibilities.

Even now her body yearned to be closer to him. She wanted to press her nose into his skin and inhale hungrily—he always smelled as if he’d just taken a walk across a sunny meadow. She wanted to rub her palm against his jaw to feel the beginning of stubbles. She wanted to slide her hands underneath his shirt and learn every single shape and texture, with the fierce dedication she’d once put into mastering the Grandes Études.

During terms, Professor Marsden lives in Cambridge with his wife, chess player extraordinaire and distinguished physician and surgeon Bryony Asquith Marsden. His favorite time of day is half past six in the evening, when he meets Mrs. Marsden’s train at the station, as the latter returns from her day in London. On Sunday afternoons, rain or shine, Professor and Mrs. Marsden take a walk along The Backs, and treasure growing old together.

That's right. Carrington didn't want to marry the likes of me. He had to be dragged kicking and screaming to the negotiation table.” “Did you enjoy the dragging?” He glanced down at her. “Yes, I rather did,” she confessed. “It was amusing threatening to strip his house bare to the last plank on the floor and the last spoon in the kitchen.” “My parents are convinced of your grief.” She heard the smile in his voice. “They said tears streamed down your face at his funeral.” “For nearly three years of hard work down the drain, I cried like a bereaved mother.

«She sat at the bow of a pleasure craft a stone's throw away, under the shade of a white parasol, a diligent tourist out to reap all the beauty and charm Copenhagen had to offer. She studied him with a distressed concentration, as if she couldn't quite remember who he was. As if she didn't want to. He looked different. His hair reached down to his nape, and he'd sported a full beard for the past two years. Their eyes met. She bolted upright from the chair. The parasol fell from her hand, clanking against the deck. She stared at him, her face pale, her gaze haunted. He'd never seen her like this, not even on the day he left her. She was stunned, her composure flayed, her vulnerability visible for miles. As her boat glided past him, she picked up her skirts and ran along the port rail, her eyes never leaving his. She stumbled over a line in her path and fell hard. His heart clenched in alarm, but she barely noticed, scrambling to her feet. She kept running until she was at the stern and could not move another inch closer to him (…) Gigi didn't move from her rigid pose at the rail, but she suddenly looked worn down, as if she'd been standing there, in that same spot, for all the eighteen hundred and some days since she'd last seen him. She still loved him. The thought echoed wildly in his head, making him hot and dizzy. She still loved him.»

When will you ask for your post back?” he whispered in her ear. “I miss the smell of industrial-strength solvents.” She laughed softly. “Soon. And when will you have papers read at the mathematical society again? I rather like having my husband called a genius for reasons that are not clear to me.” My husband. The words rolled off her tongue, easy and beautiful. He kissed her fervently. “Soon. My brilliance quite overflowed on the way home. I have four notebooks to show for it.” “Good. We don’t want people to think I love you for your looks alone.” “In that case we should also put you in some rather revealing gowns once in a while, so that people don’t think I married you for your accomplishments alone.

Amazing what a man thought of, looking at a fully clothed woman who did nothing more provocative than sipping her tea while gazing thoughtfully into the distance. For the thousandth time he wished he’d just met her. That they were but two strangers traveling together, that such lovely, filthy thoughts did not break him in two, but were only a pleasant pastime as he slowly fell under the spell of her aloof beauty and her hidden intensity. There were so many stories he could tell her, so many ways to draw her out of her shell. He would have waited with bated breath for her first smile, for the sound of her first laughter. He would be endlessly curious about her, eager to undress her metaphorically as well as physically. The first holding of hands. The first kiss. The first time he saw her unclothed. The first time they became one. The first time they finished each other’s sentences. But no, they’d met long ago, in the furthest years of his childhood. Their chances had come and gone. All they had ahead of them were a tedious road and a final good-bye.

… In 1885, when he turned twenty-five, he let out the word that he was ready to settle down with the right girl. The matrons heaved a collective sigh of relief. How wonderful. The boy actually understood his duties to God and country. He had no intention of marrying, of course, until he was at least forty-five – a society that so worshiped the infernal institution of marriage deserved to be misled. Let them try to matchmake. He did say the right girl, didn’t he? The right girl wouldn’t come along for twenty years, and she’d be a naive, plump-chested chit of seventeen who worshiped the ground on which he trod. Little could he guess that at twenty-eight he would marry, out of the blue, a lady who was quite some years removed from seventeen, neither naive nor plump-chested, and who examined the ground on which he trod with a most suspicious eye, seeing villany in everything he said and did. Her name was Louisa Cantwell, and she would be his undoing.

The aroma of chicken broth and beef pie wafted into the parlor. She set down the tray of food on the low table next to him. “Are you all right?” He grunted. “You don’t want to eat anything?” “No.” He did not want to tax his stomach for the next twelve hours. “So what now? Are we going on the run?” He removed his arm from his face and opened his eyes. She was sitting on the carpet before the low table, wearing his gray, hooded tunic, but not his trousers. Her legs were bare below mid-thigh. The sight jolted him out of his lethargy. “Where are your trousers?” “They had no braces and won’t stay up. Besides, it’s warm enough in here.” He was feeling quite hot. It was not unusual to see girls in short robes come summertime in Delamer. But in England skirts always skimmed the ground and men went mad for a glimpse of feminine ankles. So much skin—boys at school would faint from overexcitement. He might have been a bit unsteady too, if he were not already lying down. “You never answered my question,” she said, as if the view of long, shapely legs should not scramble his thoughts at all.