What Moves the Dead

“No, you blithering idiot,” I growled, shaking his hand off. Damnable English language—more words than anybody can be expected to keep track of, and then they use the same one for about three different things.

reinforced

blunt their teeth

“Mountain lakes so often are,” I said, which was true, even if this particular one was not. It looked dark and stagnant. Lovely is not the word I would have used to describe it. In need of fire and holy water, perhaps.

“I am not a woman, I am a soldier!”

I did not know how to deal with this sort of death, the one that comes slow and inevitable and does not let go.

How do you do?” Denton said.

Ah. American. That explained the clothes and the way he stood with his legs wide and his elbows out, as if he had a great deal more space than was actually available. (I am never sure what to think of Americans. Their brashness can be charming, but just when I decide that I rather like them, I meet one that I wish would go back to America, and then perhaps keep going off the far edge, into the sea.)

you look like you’ve been dragged arse-first through hell.”

We all make our own way in the world, or don’t.