"Madam, I Owe You An Apology. You Were Correct, And I Was In Error. The Duke IS Pixilated."
And then my resolve crumbled. Out of a nearly five hundred page book, I should like to point out, I have only culled these little bits. That something at least, isn't it? Consider yourselves lucky to have gotten off so lightly.
Oh sweet Beloved Spare us Sores, thought Mosca. Look at us, we're thieves, and mill burners, and spies, and one of us is a cutthroat as well. We're Criminals of the Murkiest Hue, and we're not even very good at it.
. . . . . . . . . .
Mosca took a dish from the lady of the house in silence. So this was a nest of radicals. She thought a hotbed of sedition would involve more gunpowder and secret handshakes, and less shuffling of feet and passing the sugar.
. . . . . . . . . .
There was an appalled silence.
"I find it hard to believe that a lady like . . ." Pertellis hesitated and coughed. "There is something elevated in the female spirit that will always hold a woman back from the coldest and most viscious forms of villainy."
"No, there isn't," Miss Kitely said kindly but firmly, as she set a dish in his hand. "Drink your chocolate, Mr. Pertellis."
. . . . . . . . . .
A hush followed this question while everyone tried to piece the sentence together in their heads. "Oh dear, this is complicated . . . perhaps if I drew a diagram to make things clearer?"
"Whatever happened to simple plans?" muttered Blythe, still sighting along his gun through the doorway.
"Do you have a better idea, sir?" asked Clent coolly.
"I am far too confused to have a better idea!" flared Blythe.
Mosca found herself warming to him.
. . . . . . . . . .
Mosca thought about the sullen, heavy-wigged guildsmen fretting that their power had been taken away and given to a highwayman, and knew that she did not feel at all sorry. In fact, she felt fiercely pleased about it.
"Mr. Clent . . ." Mosca remembered the discussion in the antechamber. "Lady Tamarind had a pocket watch shaped like a pistol, didn't she?"
"The same thought had occurred to me."
"But you don't think we should tell . . ."
"No, madam, I do not propose to tell the Stationers that one of their best operatives was probably held at pocket-watch point long enough to let an arch-criminal escape. I do not think they would take the news well."
- Francis Hardinge, Fly By Night
Now perhaps I can get back to some hatting, seeing as I have run out of story to blockquote at you.
This entry was originally posted at http://chronographia.dreamwidth.org/28367.html. Please comment there using OpenID.
Oh sweet Beloved Spare us Sores, thought Mosca. Look at us, we're thieves, and mill burners, and spies, and one of us is a cutthroat as well. We're Criminals of the Murkiest Hue, and we're not even very good at it.
. . . . . . . . . .
Mosca took a dish from the lady of the house in silence. So this was a nest of radicals. She thought a hotbed of sedition would involve more gunpowder and secret handshakes, and less shuffling of feet and passing the sugar.
. . . . . . . . . .
There was an appalled silence.
"I find it hard to believe that a lady like . . ." Pertellis hesitated and coughed. "There is something elevated in the female spirit that will always hold a woman back from the coldest and most viscious forms of villainy."
"No, there isn't," Miss Kitely said kindly but firmly, as she set a dish in his hand. "Drink your chocolate, Mr. Pertellis."
. . . . . . . . . .
A hush followed this question while everyone tried to piece the sentence together in their heads. "Oh dear, this is complicated . . . perhaps if I drew a diagram to make things clearer?"
"Whatever happened to simple plans?" muttered Blythe, still sighting along his gun through the doorway.
"Do you have a better idea, sir?" asked Clent coolly.
"I am far too confused to have a better idea!" flared Blythe.
Mosca found herself warming to him.
. . . . . . . . . .
Mosca thought about the sullen, heavy-wigged guildsmen fretting that their power had been taken away and given to a highwayman, and knew that she did not feel at all sorry. In fact, she felt fiercely pleased about it.
"Mr. Clent . . ." Mosca remembered the discussion in the antechamber. "Lady Tamarind had a pocket watch shaped like a pistol, didn't she?"
"The same thought had occurred to me."
"But you don't think we should tell . . ."
"No, madam, I do not propose to tell the Stationers that one of their best operatives was probably held at pocket-watch point long enough to let an arch-criminal escape. I do not think they would take the news well."
- Francis Hardinge, Fly By Night
Now perhaps I can get back to some hatting, seeing as I have run out of story to blockquote at you.
This entry was originally posted at http://chronographia.dreamwidth.org/28367.html. Please comment there using OpenID.