The Bone Spindle Quotes

For the love of ammonites, man! That's just stupid. Why on earth would the Society need to protect unmarried women from bone-dry lectures regarding soil composition? Do your members find themselves whipped into some sort of dusty frenzy, from which no delicate lass would be safe?" Mr. Barrington tugged on his coat. "Sometimes the debate does get heated." Colin turned to her. "Min, Can I just hit him?" "I think that's a bad idea." "run him through with something sharp?

Maybe falling in love wasn't something you dreamed about, or something you left to destiny. Maybe it was something that happened when you were having too much fun to notice.

You think love is some beautiful dream, but love can make people do terrible things.

Sometimes being different was lonely, but other times [..] it felt like the best thing she could ever be.

Right up until that moment, she hadn't thought there was anything wrong with her. She'd imagined everyone grew up this way.

Falling for Red was like being caught in a riptide, powerful, irresistible, already dragging her under. But even if Shane was going to drown in this, she couldn't bring herself to pull away.

The rest, they could do together.

I don't want faithful! [..] I want love - real love. I want us to be meant for each other.

What was the point of being a part of some great destiny if all it meant was that his life was never his own?

I love you. Those words were sweeter and more painful than she'd ever thought they could be.

One by one, they guessed aloud about what Lotto had meant by this sculpture: nautilus, fiddlehead, galaxy. Thread running off its spindle. Forces of nature, perfect in beauty, perfectly ephemeral, they guessed. He was too shy to say time. He’d woken with a dry tongue and the urge to make the abstract concrete, to build his new understanding: that this was the way that time was, a spiral. He loved the uselessness of all the effort, the ephemerality of the work. The ocean encroached, it licked their feet. It pushed around the outside wall of the spiral, fingering its way in. When the water had scooped the sand from the lifeguard's chair, revealing white like bone beneath, something broke, and the fragments spun into the future. This day would bend back and shine itself into everything.

She asked, “Are you well?” “Yes.” His voice was a deep rasp. “Are you?” She nodded, expecting him to release her at the confirmation. When he showed no signs of moving, she puzzled at it. Either he was gravely injured or seriously impertinent. “Sir, you’re…er, you’re rather heavy.” Surely he could not fail to miss that hint. He replied, “You’re soft.” Good Lord. Who was this man? Where had he come from? And how was he still atop her? “You have a small wound.” With trembling fingers, she brushed a reddish knot high on his temple, near his hairline. “Here.” She pressed her hand to his throat, feeling for his pulse. She found it, thumping strong and steady against her gloved fingertips. “Ah. That’s nice.” Her face blazed with heat. “Are you seeing double?” “Perhaps. I see two lips, two eyes, two flushed cheeks…a thousand freckles.” She stared at him. “Don’t concern yourself, miss. It’s nothing.” His gaze darkened with some mysterious intent. “Nothing a little kiss won’t mend.” And before she could even catch her breath, he pressed his lips to hers. A kiss. His mouth, touching hers. It was warm and firm, and then…it was over. Her first real kiss in all her five-and-twenty years, and it was finished in a heartbeat. Just a memory now, save for the faint bite of whiskey on her lips. And the heat. She still tasted his scorching, masculine heat. Belatedly, she closed her eyes. “There, now,” he murmured. “All better.” Better? Worse? The darkness behind her eyelids held no answers, so she opened them again. Different. This strange, strong man held her in his protective embrace, and she was lost in his intriguing green stare, and his kiss reverberated in her bones with more force than a powder blast. And now she felt different. The heat and weight of him…they were like an answer. The answer to a question Susanna hadn’t even been aware her body was asking. So this was how it would be, to lie beneath a man. To feel shaped by him, her flesh giving in some places and resisting in others. Heat building between two bodies; dueling heartbeats pounding both sides of the same drum. Maybe…just maybe…this was what she’d been waiting to feel all her life. Not swept her off her feet-but flung across the lane and sent tumbling head over heels while the world exploded around her. He rolled onto his side, giving her room to breathe. “Where did you come from?” “I think I should ask you that.” She struggled up on one elbow. “Who are you? What on earth are you doing here?” “Isn’t it obvious?” His tone was grave. “We’re bombing the sheep.” “Oh. Oh dear. Of course you are.” Inside her, empathy twined with despair. Of course, he was cracked in the head. One of those poor soldiers addled by war. She ought to have known it. No sane man had ever looked at her this way. She pushed aside her disappointment. At least he had come to the right place. And landed on the right woman. She was far more skilled in treating head wounds than fielding gentlemen’s advances. The key here was to stop thinking of him as an immense, virile man and simply regard him as a person who needed her help. An unattractive, poxy, eunuch sort of person. Reaching out to him, she traced one fingertip over his brow. “Don’t be frightened,” she said in a calm, even tone. “All is well. You’re going to be just fine.” She cupped his cheek and met his gaze directly. “The sheep can’t hurt you here.

It was a perfect spring day. The air was sweet and gentle and the sky stretched high, an intense blue. Harold was certain that the last time he had peered through the net drapes of Fossebridge Road (his home), the trees and hedges were dark bones and spindles against the skyline; yet now that he was out, and on his feet, it was as if everywhere he looked, the fields, gardens, trees, and hedgerows and exploded with growth. A canopy of sticky young leaves clung to the branches above him. There were startling yellow clouds of forsythia, trails of purple aubrietia; a young willow shook in a fountain of silver. The first of the potato shoots fingered through the soil, and already tiny buds hung from the gooseberry and currant shrubs like the earrings Maureen used to wear. The abundance of new life was enough to make him giddy.

There are Californians who waiver in their allegiance to the climate of California. Sometimes the climate of San Francisco has made me cross. Sometimes I have thought that the winds in summer were too cold, that the fogs in summer were too thick. But whenever I have crossed the continent—when I have emerged from New York at ninety-five degrees, and entered Chicago at one hundred degrees—when I have been breathing the dust of alkali deserts and the fiery air of sagebrush plains—these are the times when I have always been buoyed up by the anticipation of inhaling the salt air of San Francisco Bay. If ever a summer wanderer is glad to get back to his native land, it is I, returning to my native fog. Like the prodigal youth who returned to his home and filled himself with husks, so I always yearn in summer to return to mine, and fill myself up with fog. Not a thin, insignificant mist, but a fog—a thick fog—one of those rich pea-soup August fogs that blow in from the Pacific Ocean over San Francisco. When I leave the heated capitals of other lands and get back to California uncooked, I always offer up a thank-offering to Santa Niebla, Our Lady of the Fogs. Out near the Presidio, where Don Joaquin de Arillaga, the old comandante, revisits the glimpses of the moon, clad in rusty armor, with his Spanish spindle-shanks thrust into tall leathern boots—there some day I shall erect a chapel to Santa Niebla. And I have vowed to her as an ex-voto a silver fog-horn, which horn will be wound by the winds of the broad Pacific, and will ceaselessly sound through the centuries the litany of Our Lady of the Fogs. Every Californian has good reason to be loyal to his native land. If even the Swiss villagers, born in the high Alps, long to return to their birthplace, how much more does the exiled Californian yearn to return to the land which bore him. There are other, richer, and more populous lands, but to the Californian born, California is the only place in which to live. And to the returning Californian, particularly if he be native-born, the love of his birthplace is only intensified by visits to other lands. Why do men so love their native soil? It is perhaps a phase of human love for the mother. For we are compact of the soil. Out of the crumbling granite eroded from the ribs of California’s Sierras by California’s mountain streams—out of earth washed into California’s great valleys by her mighty rivers—out of this the sons of California are made, brain, and muscle, and bone. Why then should they not love their mother, even as the mountaineers of Montenegro, of Switzerland, of Savoy, lover their mountain birth-place? Why should not exiled Californians yearn to return? And we sons of California always do return; we are always brought back by the potent charm of our native land—back to the soil which gave us birth—and at the last back to Earth, the great mother, from whom we sprung, and on whose bosom we repose our tired bodies when our work is done.

As a sensory device, the tendon organ is a close partner to the muscle spindle in the assessment of the specific activity of every one of my alpha motor units. The anulospiral element of the spindle measures the length of a muscle’s fibers, and the speed with which that length is changing. Adding to this information, the Golgi tendon organs measure the tensions that are developed as a result of these changing lengths. The degree of distortion in the parallel zig-zag collagen bundles is a precise gauge of the force with which a muscle is actually pulling on the bone to which it is attached. Such a gauge is really necessary in order to fully and accurately assess the net amount of work force actually being delivered by a muscle, as opposed to merely knowing now much and how fast it is lengthening or shortening. I can shorten my bicep exactly the same distance at exactly the same speed, whether there is a book in my hand or not, and my spindles will register identical information in either case. It is only the differing stress placed upon the tendon organ during the gesture which announces and evaluates the added weight of the book.

But the action of the tendon organ’s synapse onto its corresponding motor neuron is not the same as that of the spindle; it is its complimentary opposite, The action of the anulospiral receptor upon its motor nerve is excitatory: When the spindle is suddenly stretched beyond a pre-determined “normal” resting length—as in the knee jerk reflex test—it excites the alpha motor nerve so that a contraction immediately follows which quickly re-establishes the desired “normal” resting length. 7-14: A Golgi reflex arc. In the spinal cord, its effect upon the alpha motor neurons is the opposite of that of the spindles: The Golgi afferent impulse inhibits the muscle fibers associated with it, and excites antagonists. The two kinds of arcs form complementary reflex devices. The tendon organ, on the other hand, has an inhibitory effect upon its alpha motor nerve: When the tension developed upon a tendon exceeds a pre-set “normal” limit, the Golgi inhibits the motor nerve, reducing its level of stimulatory firing and thus relaxing the tension back down to its “normal” resting value. The simplest and most basic function of this inhibitory reflex arc is to prevent the contractile power of the muscles from damaging the tendons and the bones. Many of our muscles are capable of generating enough pull to rip themselves loose from their own moorings, and even the smaller ones which do not have such brute power are in danger of being torn by the uncontrolled pulling of the larger muscles around them. When the Golgi organ senses, due to the increasing tensional distortion of the tendon’s fibers, that a strain or a tear is imminent, its signal becomes powerful enough to inhibit the alpha motor neurons that are stimulating the contraction. Tension is reduced instantly, and the damage is avoided.

First of all, the tone of my muscle cells must hold my skeleton together so that it neither collapses in upon my organs nor dislocates at its joints. It is tone, just as much as it is connective tissues or bone, that is responsible for my basic structural shape and integrity. Secondly, my muscle tone must superimpose upon its own stability the steady, rhythmical expansion and contraction of respiration. Third, it must support my overall structure in one position or another—lying, sitting standing, and so on. Finally, it must be able to brace and release any part of the body in relation to the whole, and to do this with spontaneity and split-second timing, so that graceful, purposeful action may be added to my stability, my posture, and my rhythmic respiration. It is no wonder we find that such large portions of our nervous systems are so continually engaged in controlling the maintenance and adjustments of this tone. The entire system of spindle cells, with both their contractile parts and their anulospiral receptors, the Golgi tendon organs, the reflex arcs, much of the internuncial circuitry of the spinal column, and most of the oldest portion of our brains—including the reticular formation and the basal ganglia—all work together to orchestrate this complex phenomenon. We have, as it were, a brain within our brain and a muscle system within our muscle system to monitor the constantly shifting values of background tonus, to provide a stable yet flexible framework which we are free to use how we will. Nor is it a wonder that these elements and processes are normally controlled below my level of consciousness—if this were not the case, walking across the room to get a glass of water would require more diversified and minute attention than my conscious awareness could possibly muster. It is the old brain, along with the even more ancient spinal cord, that are given the bulk of this task, because they have had so many more generations in which to grapple with the problems and refine the solutions. Millions upon millions of trials and errors have resulted in genetically constant motor circuits and sensory feedback loops which handle the fundamental life-supporting jobs of muscle tone for me automatically. Firm structure, posture, respiratory rhythms, swallowing, elimination, grasping, withdrawing, tracking with the eyes—all these intact and fully functional activities and more are given to each of us as new-born infants, the legacy of the development of our ancestors.

Erik Spindle. Master of one of Blunder’s oldest houses. Tall, severe, fearsome. Most grievous of all, he had once been Captain of the very men called to hunt down those who carried magic—like myself. Destrier, down to his very bones. But he was more than a soldier to me. He was my father. Like Spindles before him, he was a man of few words. When he chose to speak, his voice was deep, sharp, like the jagged stones that lingered in shadow beneath a drawbridge. His hair was streaked with silver, fastened at his neck with a leather strip. Like Nerium, his jaw did not lend to easy smiles. But when he glanced my way, the sharp corners of his blue eyes softened.

The Destriers arrived behind him and dropped from their horses. “Sire?” Wicker said. Elm opened his eyes and exhaled. He had no mind to command them. But Ravyn had made himself scarce, and Jespyr had remained at Stone to keep an eye on Emory, leaving Elm—petulant to his bones—to do the King’s bidding and look for Elspeth Spindle’s missing kin.

Your cousin,” he shouted. “She’s infected, isn’t she?” Ione’s voice was cold. “No.” He hit her across the face with an open palm—took her yellow hair in his fist. “Tell me the truth, Ione.” She stayed unmoving, unflinching. “Elspeth isn’t infected.” His face grew redder. “It’s disgrace enough that my own cousins carry that blight. But now my future wife’s—it is too much.” He dragged Ione by her hair to the casement window, slammed it open. “You’ll have your wish, my dear,” he said, hauling her over the sill. “I release you from our engagement.” Ione clawed at him. Screamed. But with one brutal shove— She was falling. Elm’s entire body seized, and he fell with Ione down Spindle House’s reaching tower. He heard the sickly crunch of her skull, cracking against brick. When Ione peered down at her body, jagged, red-tipped bones had torn through her clothes. Blood pulsed in Elm’s ears. He struggled to tap the Nightmare Card. When he opened his eyes, Ione was watching him. He

Dreams change,” I told her. “They have to. Stretch with our bones as we grow up. No shame in ending up on a different path than you started down on.

Your home, too, isn’t it?” “Duty requires I remain here, with the King,” he said, his expression unwavering. “But it is not my home. My family’s estate is in town. The Destriers often train there, as they once did at Spindle House.” I frowned. “The castle at the top of the hill?” “The very same.” Castle Yew was old—the grounds historic. The wrought-iron gate and the dark, climbing ivy resided under the shadow of ancient yew trees—tall and foreboding. Beyond lay a statuary, a maze of stone and hedges, then the towering, ominous house. I had walked past the gate many times as a child, certain to my bones there was something to fear under those trees. I’d never been inside.

Violet could not say that the scrapes and broken nose made him less handsome—and even if they did make him a fraction less handsome, they made him ten times more virile and attractive. What was it about a visible, flesh-and-bone record of violence that made a man so alluring? She couldn’t explain it, but she felt it. Oh, she felt it.

his sternum. That shamelessly sensual crossroads of bone and muscle and sinew and skin.