Wundersmith: The Calling of Morrigan Crow (Nevermoor Book 2)

“Completely over the top?”

Telling her not to worry about bad things happening around her was like telling Hawthorne not to get excited about dragons, or Jupiter not to be ginger.

Singing? It sounded like a joke. Singing was for people like Dame Chanda. For the Angel Israfel. Surely it was not one of the Wretched Arts of the Accomplished Wundersmith.

Her eyes were ice blue,

“The Elders will come around,” he said. “We’ll find a way to make them come around.

Nobody’s going to hold your little handies or wipe your little nosies. Yet they were quite happy to break their little handies, apparently.

“But in the end, I just couldn’t choose between making him drool through the whole thing, speak in a baby voice, or drop his trousers at the end and shout ‘BAZZY WANT POTTY.’” Cadence grinned. “So I went with all three.”

Morrigan could have composed a ballad about the miracle of this tea tray, if she hadn’t been immediately occupied with its demolition.

I’m supposed to make you call me Conductor Cheery, but if you ask me, that sounds even stupider. So let’s just agree on Miss Cheery, all right?”