The Prisoner's Throne (Stolen Heir #2) by Holly Black

“Have I ever told you how much you sound  Madoc when you  talk about murder?” Cardan said, opening one eye. “Because you  do.”  Oak expected his sister to be angry, but she only laughed. “That  must be what you  about me.”  “That you’re terrifying?” he asked, his drawl becoming  exaggeratedly languorous, almost a purr. “I adore it.”  She leaned against him, resting her head on his shoulder, and  closed her eyes. The king’s arms came around her, and she  shivered once, as though letting something fall away.” 

― Holly Black, The Prisoner’s Throne  

“I adore you. I want to play games with you. I want to tell you  all the truths I have to give. And if you really think you’re a  monster, then let’s be monsters together.” 

― Holly Black, The Prisoner’s Throne  

“Cardan is lying on the bed, bandaged and sulking, in a  magnificent dressing gown. “I hate being unwell,” he says.  “You’re not sick,” Jude tells him. “You are recovering from  being stabbed—or rather, throwing yourself on a knife.”  “You would have done the same for me,” he says airily.  “I would not,” Jude snaps.  “Liar,” Cardan says fondly.” 

― Holly Black, The Prisoner’s Throne  

“Would you consider actually marrying me?”  She looks up at him, obviously surprised and a little suspicious.  “Really?”  He presses a kiss to her hair. “If you did, I would be willing to  make the ultimate sacrifice to prove the sincerity of my feelings.”  “What’s that?” she asks, peering up at him.  “Become a king of some place instead of running away from all  royal responsibility.”  She laughs. “You wouldn’t rather sit by my throne on a leash?”  “That does seem easier,” he admits. “I would make an excellent  consort.”  “Then I’ll have to marry you, Prince Oak of the Greenbriar line, ” Wren says, with a sharp-toothed smile. “Just to make you suffer.” 

― Holly Black, The Prisoner’s Throne  

“I am a chasm that will never be full. I am hunger. I am need.  I cannot be sated. If you try, I will swallow you up. I will  take all of you and want more. I will use you. I will drain  you until you are nothing more than a husk.” 

― Holly Black, The Prisoner’s Throne  

“Why does anyone want anyone else? […] We do not love because  people deserve it – nor would I want to be loved because I was  the most deserving of some list of candidates. I want to be  loved for my worst self as well as my best. I want to be  forgiven my flaws.” 

― Holly Black, The Prisoner’s Throne  

“Oak desperately wants to stop Cardan from talking, but short of  kicking him or throwing something at his head, he has no idea how.” 

― Holly Black, The Prisoner’s Throne  

“Some broken things stay broken” 

― Holly Black, The Prisoner’s Throne  

“I thought love was a fascination, or a desire to be around  someone, or wanting to make them happy. I believed it just  happened,  a slap to the face, and left the way the sting  from such a blow fades. That’s why it was easy for me to  believe it could be false or manipulated or influenced by magic.  Until I met you, I didn’t understand to feel loved, one has to  feel known. And that, outside of my family, I had never really  loved because I hadn’t bothered to know the other person. But  I know you. And you have to come back to me, Wren, because no  one gets us but us. You know why you’re not a monster, but I  might be. I know why throwing me in your dungeon meant there  was still something between us. We are messes and we are messed  up and I don’t want to go through this world without the one  person I can’t hide from and who can’t hide from me.” 

― Holly Black, The Prisoner’s Throne  

“You want me to stay the heir while you two go off somewhere?  And then I can step down, be de-princed, whatever?” “Exactly that,” says Cardan. “ on a vacation?” Cardan snorts. “I don’t understand,” Oak says. “Where are you going?” “A diplomatic mission,” says Cardan, leaning back on the  cushions. “After that last little rescue, Nicasia has demanded  we honor our treaty, meet her suitors, and witness the contest  for her hand and crown. And so Jude and I are headed to the  Undersea, where we will go to a lot of parties and try very  hard not to die.” 

― Holly Black, The Prisoner’s Throne  

“Pain is better than being dead.” 

― Holly Black, The Prisoner’s Throne  

“We do not love because people deserve it—nor would I want to  be loved because I was the most deserving of some list of  candidates. I want to be loved for my worst self as well as my  best. I want to be forgiven my flaws.” 

― Holly Black, The Prisoner’s Throne  

“Inside, the horror he felt when she spoke those words— have  you ever wondered if anyone truly loved you— hasn’t faded, but  he can hide that. Easily. For the first time, he hates how  easily. He hates that he can fold himself up so tightly in his  own skin that there’s nothing real about him on the outside.” 

― Holly Black, The Prisoner’s Throne  

“So let me get this straight,” Oak says. “You understand the  part where I might have had to kill a lot of people, but you  think I chose the wrong girl to kiss?” 

― Holly Black, The Prisoner’s Throne  

“If anyone wants to torture you, all they need to do is make you  talk about your feelings.” 

― Holly Black, The Prisoner’s Throne  

“I would speak with Oak for a moment,” Cardan says. “Alone.” Jude looks surprised but then shrugs. “I’ll be outside, yelling  at people.” “Try not to enjoy it too greatly,” says Cardan as she goes out.” 

― Holly Black, The Prisoner’s Throne  

“What do you want?” he asks, voice soft. “Everything. Charm me.  Rip me open. Ruin me. Go too far.” He shudders at her words,  shaking his head against them. She goes on, whispering against  his skin. “You cannot understand. I am a chasm that will never  be full. I am hunger. I am need. I cannot be sated. If you try,  I will swallow you up. I will take all of you and want more. I  will use you. I will drain you until you are nothing more than  a husk.” “Use me, then,” he whispers, mouth on her throat.” 

― Holly Black, The Prisoner’s Throne  

“You didn’t trust me.” “Having spent a great deal of time playing the fool myself,”  Cardan says, “I recognized your game. Not at first, but long  before Jude. She didn’t want to believe me, and I am never going  to tire of crowing about being right.” “So you didn’t think I was really allied with Randalin?” Cardan smiles. “No,” he says. “But I wasn’t certain which of your  allies were actually on your side. And I was rather hoping you’d  let us lock you up and protect you.” “You could have given me some sort of hint!” Oak says. Cardan raises a single eyebrow. Oak shakes his head. “Yes, well, fine. I could have done the same.  And fine, you were losing blood.” Cardan makes a gesture as though tossing off Oak’s words. “I have  little experience of dispensing brotherly wisdom, but I know a  great deal about mistakes. And about hiding behind a mask.” He  saluted with his wineglass. “Some might say that I still do, but  they would be wrong. To those I love, I am myself. Too much myself,  sometimes.” Oak laughs. “Jude wouldn’t say that.” Cardan takes a deep swallow of plum-dark wine, looking pleased  with himself. “She would but she’d be lying. But, most important”— he raises a single finger— “I knew what you were up to before she  did.” The a second. “And if you decide you want to risk your life,  perhaps you could also risk a little personal discomfort and let  your family in on your plans.” Oak lets out a long sigh. “I will take that under advisement.” 

― Holly Black, The Prisoner’s Throne  

“Jude frowned. “If she steps from that Citadel, I will cut her  throat from ear to ear.” Cardan drew a dramatic line across his throat and then slumped  exaggeratedly over, eyes closed, mouth open. Playing dead. Jude scowled. “You need not make fun.” “Have I ever told you how much you sound  Madoc when you talk  about murder?” Cardan said, opening one eye. “Because you do.” Oak expected his sister to be angry, but she only laughed. “That  must be what you  about me.” “That you’re terrifying?” he asked, his drawl becoming  exaggeratedly languorous, almost a purr. “I adore it.” She leaned against him, resting her head on his shoulder, and  closed her eyes. The king’s arm came around her, and she shivered  once, as though letting something fall away.” 

― Holly Black, The Prisoner’s Throne  

“Not everyone needs to love you.” 

― Holly Black, The Prisoner’s Throne  

“Maybe he doesn’t understand how she feels exactly, but he  understands that familial love isn’t guaranteed, and even when  you have it, it doesn’t always keep you safe.” 

― Holly Black, The Prisoner’s Throne  

“You’ve got to determine your own fate. Make your own choices.  And I have to let you.” “Thank you,” he forces out. It’s not a polite thing to say among  the Folk, but Jude ought to hear it. Those words absolve him of  no debt. He’s let her down and possibly made her proud of him, too. His  family cares about him in ways that are far too complex and  layered for it to come from enchantment, and that is a profound  relief. “For listening to you? Don’t worry. I won’t make it a habit.”  Walking up to him, she puts her arms around him, bumping her chin  against his chest. “You’re so annoyingly tall. I used to be able  to carry you on my shoulders.” “I could carry you,” Oak offers. “You used to kick me with your hooves,” she tells him. “I wouldn’t  mind a chance for revenge.” “I bet.” He laughs.” 

― Holly Black, The Prisoner’s Throne  

“What if I am too much? If I need too much?” she asks, her voice  very low. He takes a deep breath, his smile gone. “I’m not good.  I’m not kind. Maybe I am not even safe. But whatever you want from  me, I will give you.” 

― Holly Black, The Prisoner’s Throne  

“He loves that she knows he’s not peaceful. Loves that she doesn’t  think him kind. He doesn’t know how, but from the first she seemed  to recognize something in him that no one else does – that inner  kernel of hardness, of coldness.” 

― Holly Black, The Prisoner’s Throne  

“Wren lifts her hand. As she does, the skin of the Sablecoil peels  back from the muscle, the tentacle going limp and shriveled. A  horrible shuddering goes through the ship as all the tentacles  detach at once. The boards creak. The last of the merrows disappears beneath the waves, whatever  last taunt he may have spoken dying on his lips. The storm hag, in vulture form, makes a guttural sound as she  flies. The wind rises higher, blowing all around them, as though  she is conjuring a shield of rain and wind. Wren stumbles, reaching for Oak’s arm. He puts it around her waist,  holding her upright. “I killed it.” Already, her skin has a waxy appearance. He thinks about Bogdana’s story. About how if Wren’s power really  works  matches, she keeps taking handfuls of them and setting  them alight. “Killing is my thing,” he tells her. “You should get  your own thing.” Her lip quirks. Her gaze seems a little unfocused.” 

― Holly Black, The Prisoner’s Throne  

“I know what you think,” Oak says. “That you’re not whom I should  want.” She ducks her head, a faint flush on her cheeks. “It’s true you inspire no safe daydream of love,” he tells her. “A nightmare, then?” she asks with a small, self-deprecating laugh. “The kind of love that comes when two people see each other clearly,”  he says, walking to her. “Even if they’re scared to believe that’s  possible. I adore you. I want to play games with you. I want to tell  you all the truths I have to give. And if you really think you’re a  monster, then let’s be monsters together.” Wren stares at him. “And if I send you away even after this speech?  If I don’t want you?” He hesitates. “Then I’ll go,” he says. “And adore you from afar. And  compose ballads about you or something.” “You could make me love you,” she says. “You?” Oak snorts. “I doubt it. You’re not interested in my telling  you what you want to hear. I think you might actually prefer me at my  least charming.” “What if I am too much? If I need too much?” she asks, her voice very  low. He takes a deep breath, his smile gone. “I’m not good. I’m not kind.  Maybe I am not even safe. But whatever you want from me, I will give  you.” For a moment, they stare at each other. He can see the tension in her  body. But her eyes are clear and bright and open. She nods, a smile  growing on her lips. “I want you to stay.” “Good,” he says, sitting on the couch beside her. “Because it’s very  cold out there, and it was a long walk.” She lets her head fall against his shoulders with a sigh, let’s him  put his arm around her and pull her into an embrace.” 

― Holly Black, The Prisoner’s Throne  

“Oak got mixed up with the wrong people, that’s all,” Jude said  wearily. Cardan smiled, a curl of black hair falling in front of his face.  “He’s more  you than you want to see. Clever. Ambitious.” “If what’s happening is anyone’s fault, it’s mine,” Jude said with  another sigh. “For not ordering Lady Nore’s execution when I had  the chance.” “All the obscene snake songs must have been greatly distracting,”  Cardan said lightly, moving on from the discussion of Oak.  “Generosity of spirit is so uncharacteristic in you.” 

― Holly Black, The Prisoner’s Throne  

“If he could just speak to her, even for a moment… Oak knows it’s ridiculous, and yet he can’t help feeling as though  they have an understanding of each other, one that transcends this  admittedly not-great moment. She will be angry when he talks with  her, of course. He deserves her anger. He has to tell her that he regrets what he did. He’s not sure what  happens after that. Nor is he sure what it means about him that he finds hope in the  fact that Wren has kept him. Fine, not everyone would see being  thrown into a dungeon as a romantic gesture, but he’s choosing to  consider the possibility that she put him there because she wants  something more from him. Something beyond, say, skinning him and leaving his rotting corpse  for the ravens to pick over. On that thought, he splashes his way out of the tub.” 

― Holly Black, The Prisoner’s Throne  

“Oak feels the delirious abandon of breaking the rules. In a  family of deceivers, telling the truth – out loud, where anyone  could hear it – was a massive transgression.” 

― Holly Black, The Prisoner’s Throne  

“Love,” Cardan goes on. “That force that compels us to be  sometimes better and often worse. That power by which we can all  be bound. That which we ought to fear and yet most desire.” 

― Holly Black, The Prisoner’s Throne  

“A moment later, her hand comes up, running over his cheek. Her  fingers push into his hair, then slip over his nape to his  shoulder. He goes very still, afraid that if he moves it will  startle her into pulling back. She has never touched him this  way, as though things could be easy between them. “You must stop,” she says, he voice little more than a whisper.  Her expression is fond. He frowns in puzzlement. Her hand has dipped down to his chest,  and even a she speaks, she opens her palm over his heart. He has  barely moved. “Stop what?” “Being kind to me. I can’t bear it.” He tenses. She withdraws her hand, letting it fall to the coverlet. The  blue stone in the ring he gave her glints up at him. “I’m not… I am not good at pretending. Not  you.” If she is speaking of her coldness toward him, she is fae better  than she believes. “We can stop. We can call a truce.” “For now,” she says. “Then today, my lady, speak freely,” he tells her with what he  hopes is a reassuring smile. “You can deny me tomorrow.” She looks up at him, he lashes falling low. She seems to be half  in a dream. “Is it exhausting to be charming all the time? Or is  it just the way you’re made?” His grin fades. He thinks of the magic leaching out of him. He can  control his charm, sort of. More or less. And he can resist using  it. He will. “Have you ever wondered if anyone truly loved you?” she asks in  that same fond, unfocused voice. Her words are a kick to the stomach, the more because he can tell  she doesn’t mean to be cruel. And because he hadn’t thought of it.  He sometimes wondered if gancanagh blood meant Folk d him a  little better than they might have otherwise, but he was too vain  to think of it affecting Oriana or his sisters.” 

― Holly Black, The Prisoner’s Throne  

“I know what you think,” Oak says. “That you’re not whom I  should want.” She ducks her head, a faint flush on her cheeks. “It’s true you inspire no safe daydream of love,” he tells  her. “A nightmare, then?” she asks with a small, self-deprecating  laugh. “The kind of love that comes when two people see each other  clearly,” he says, walking to her. “Even if they’re scared to  believe that’s possible. I adore you. I want to play games with  you. I want to tell you all the truths I have to give. And if  you really think you’re a monster, then let’s be monsters  together.” Wren stares at him. “And if I send you away even after this  speech? If I don’t want you?” He hesitates. “Then I’ll go,” he says. “And adore you from afar.  And compose ballads about you or something.” “You could make me love you,” she says. “You?” Oak snorts. “I doubt it. You’re not interested in my  telling you what you want to hear. I think you might actually  prefer me at my least charming.” “What if I am too much? If I need too much?” she asks, her  voice very low. He takes a deep breath, his smile gone. “I’m not good. I’m not  kind. Maybe I am not even safe. But whatever you want from me,  I will give you.” For a moment, they stare at each other. He can see the tension  in her body. But her eyes are clear and bright and open. She  nods, a smile growing on her lips. “I want you to stay.” “Good,” he says, sitting on the couch beside her. “Because it’s  very cold out there, and it was a long walk.” She lets her head fall against his shoulders with a sigh, lets  him put his arm around her and pull her into an embrace.” 

― Holly Black, The Prisoner’s Throne  

“He feels sick. And sicker still when his mouth curves unconsciously into a  smile. It has become such an automatic reaction to pain, for  him to mask it with a grin. Oak, laughing all the time.  Pretending nothing  hurts. A false face hiding a false heart. He can’t blame her for saying what she did. Probably something  should have said it to him much sooner. And how could he have  ever supposed she would come to care for him? Who can love  someone who is empty inside? Someone who steals love instead  of earning it?” 

― Holly Black, The Prisoner’s Throne  

“Wren once described what she was afraid of, if she revealed  herself to her family. How she imagined their rejecting her  once they saw her true face. Oak sympathized, but until this  moment he didn’t understand the horror of having all the people  who loved you best in the world look at you as though you were  a stranger,” 

― Holly Black, The Prisoner’s Throne  

“Wren once described what she was afraid of, if she revealed  herself to her family. How she imagined their rejecting her once  they saw her true face. Oak sympathized, but until this moment  he didn’t understand the horror of having all the people who  loved you best in the world look at you as though you were a  stranger.” 

― Holly Black, The Prisoner’s Throne  

“Come back to me,” he says. But Wren is silent and still. Oak lets go of his power, cursing himself. He glances up  helplessly at Jude, who looks back at him and shakes her head.  “I’m sorry.” It is a very human thing for her to say. He lets his head fall forward until his forehead is touching  Wren’s. Gathering her in his arms, he studies the hollowness of her  cheeks and the thinness of her skin. Presses a finger to the  edge of her mouth. Oak thought his magic was just finding what people wanted to  hear and saying it in the way they wanted, but since he’s let  himself really use the power, he discovered that he can use it  to find truth. And for once, he needs to tell her the truth.  “I thought love was a fascination, or a desire to be around  someone, or wanting to make them happy. I believed it just  happened,  a slap to the face, and left the way the sting  from such a blow fades. That’s why it was easy for me to  believe it could be false or manipulated or influenced by  magic. Until I met you, I didn’t understand to feel loved, one has  to feel known. And that, outside of my family, I had never  really loved because I hadn’t bothered to know the other  person. But I know you. And you have to come back to me,  Wren, because no one gets us but us. You know why you’re not  a monster, but I might be. I know why throwing me in your  dungeon meant there was still something between us. We are  messes and we are messed up and I don’t want to go through  this world without the one person I can’t hide from and who  can’t hide from me. Come back,” he says again, tears burning the back of his throat.  “You want and you want and you want, remember? Well, wake up  and take what you want.” He presses his mouth against her forehead. And startles when he hears her drawn in a breath. Her eyes open,  and for a moment she stares up at him. “Wren?” Bex says, and smacks Oak on the shoulder. “What did you  do?” Then she pulls the prince into her arms and hugs him hard. Jude is staring, hand to her mouth. Bogdana stays back, glowering, perhaps hoping that no one  noticed she rent her garments with her nails as she watched and  waited. “I’m cold,” Wren whispers, and alarm rings through him  the  sound of a bell. She could walk barefoot through the snow and  not have it hurt her. He had never heard her complain of even  the most frigid temperatures. Oak stands, lifting Wren in his arms. She feels too light, but  he is reassured by her breath ghosting across his skin, the  rise and fall of her chest. He still cannot, however, hear the beat of her heart. With the storm stopped, it seems that all of Elfhame has forded  the distance between Insear and Insmire. There are boats aplenty,  and soldiers. Grima Mic’s second-in-command is barking orders. Bex scavenges a blanket from one of the tents, and Oak manages  to bundle Wren in it. Then he carries her to a boat and  commandeers it to take him across so he can bring her to the  palace. The journey is a blur of panic, of frantic questions,  plodding steps. Finally, he carries her into his rooms. By then,  her body is shivering, and he tries not to let terror leak into  his voice as he speaks to her softly, explaining where they are  and how she will be safe. He puts Wren in his bed, then pushes it close by the fire and  piles blankets on top of her. It seems to make no difference to  her shuddering.” 

― Holly Black, The Prisoner’s Throne  

“I have little experience of dispensing brotherly wisdom, but I  know a great deal about mistakes. And about hiding behind a mask.”  He saluted with his wineglass. “Some might say that I still do,  but they would be wrong. To those I love, I am myself. Too much  myself, sometimes.” 

― Holly Black, The Prisoner’s Throne  

“So,” Oriana said, looking down the table at Oak. “You did very  well up there. It made me imagine your coronation.” Vivi snorted delicately. “I don’t want to rule anything, no less Elfhame,” Oak reminded  her.Jude kept her face carefully neutral through what appeared  to be sheer force of will. “No need to worry. I don’t plan on  kicking the bucket anytime soon, and neither does Cardan.” Oak turned to the High King, who shrugged elegantly. “Seems  hard on pointy boots, kicking buckets.” 

― Holly Black, The Prisoner’s Throne  

“Oak realized he’d been so lost in his thoughts that he’d  missed the beginning of the conversation. “I didn’t enjoy being a snake, and yet I appear to be doomed  to be reminded of it for all eternity,” Cardan was saying,  black curls falling across his face. He held a three-pronged  fork aloft, as though to emphasize his point. “The excess of  songs hasn’t helped, nor has their longevity. It’s been what?  Eight years? Nine? Truly, the celebratory air about the whole  business has been excessive. You’d think I never did a more  popular thing than sit in the dark on a throne and bite people  who annoyed me. I could have always done that. I could do that  now.” “Bite people?” echoed Jude from the other end of the table. Cardan grinned at her. “Yes, if that’s what they .” He  snapped his teeth at the air as though to demonstrate. “No one is interested in that,” Jude said, shaking her head. Taryn rolled her eyes at Heather, who smiled and took a sip of  wine. Cardan raised his brows. “I could try. A small bite. Just to  see if someone would write a song about it.” 

― Holly Black, The Prisoner’s Throne  

“Sometimes he screams into the darkness, just to remind himself  that he can. These dungeons were built to swallow screams. No one comes. Today, he screams himself hoarse and then slumps against a wall.  He wishes he could tell himself a story, but he cannot convince  himself that he is a brave prince suffering a setback on a daring  quest, nor the tempestuous, star-crossed lover he has played at so  many times in the past. Not even the loyal brother and son he  meant to be when he set out from Elfhame. Whatever he is, he’s certainly no hero. A guard stomps down the hall, driving Oak to his hooves. One of  the falcons. Straun. The prince overheard him at the gate before,  complaining, not realizing his voice carries. He is ambitious,  bored by the tediousness of guard duty, and eager to show off his  skill in front of the new queen. Wren, whose beauty Straun rhapsodizes over. Oak hates Straun. “You there,” the falcon says, drawing close. “Be quiet before I  quiet you.” Ah, Oak realizes. He’s so bored that he wants to make something  happen. “I am merely trying to give this dungeon an authentic atmosphere,”  Oak says. “What’s a place  this without the cries of the  tormented?” 

― Holly Black, The Prisoner’s Throne  

“Valen studies the prince’s face, perhaps seeing the jealousy  in it. “And you didn’t intend to run, either?” Oak isn’t sure how to answer that. He’s not sure he can explain  his intentions, even to himself. “I was considering it. Prison  isn’t very nice, and I  nice things.” Galen’s mouth turns down in disgust. This is what he expects a  prince of Elfhame to be—vain and fussy and unused to suffering  of any kind. The more Oak leans into that role, the more he will  be able to hide himself. “Although,” Oak says, “freezing isn’t particularly nice, either.” “So you drugged Straun and broke out of the prisons,” Valen says  slowly, incredulously, “with no plan at all?” Oak cannot shrug, as tied down as he is, but he makes a gesture  to indicate his nonchalance. “Some of my best ideas come to me in  the moment. And I did get a bath.” 

― Holly Black, The Prisoner’s Throne  

“The guards depart, one spitting on the stone floor as he leaves. “I warn you,” Oak says. “If you are also planning on hitting me,  it will have to be quite a blow to have any effect on the swelling  and bruises already coming in.” “You might consider occasionally bowing to wisdom and keeping your  tongue between your teeth,” Hyacinthe says, reaching out a hand to  pull Oak to his feet. For a moment, the prince is certain he’s going to open his mouth  and say something Hyacinthe will not think is at all funny.  Something that probably won’t be at all funny. “Unly, but we can both live in hope.” 

― Holly Black, The Prisoner’s Throne  

“Well, come on,” says Hyacinthe. “Unless you want me to carry you.” “Carry me? What a delightful offer. You can bear me in your arms   a maiden in a fairy tale.” Hyacinthe rolls his eyes. “I can throw you over my shoulder  a  sack of grain.” “Then I suppose I shall walk,” Oak says, hoping he can.” 

― Holly Black, The Prisoner’s Throne  

“You’ve got bruises, and it’s too soon for them to have come  from the fight I just saw. Those iron burns aren’t fresh,  either, and they’re the wrong shape and angle to come from  your prison bars.  What happened?” “I’m a miracle of self-destructiveness.” 

― Holly Black, The Prisoner’s Throne  

“You can’t help what you are. You can’t help being charming. But  look into too many hearts, and you may lose your way back to your  own.” “I don’t understand,” he said again. “You can become the embodiment of someone’s—oh, you’re so young.  I don’t know how to say this—you can make people see you the way  they want to see you. This seems harmless, but it can be dangerous  to become everything a person wants. The embodiment of all their  desires. And more dangerous for you to twist yourself into shapes  others choose for you.” He looked up at her, still confused. “Oh, my darling, my sweet child. Not everyone needs to love you.” She sighed. But Oak d everyone loving him. Oak d it so much that he  didn’t understand why he would want it to be otherwise.” 

― Holly Black, The Prisoner’s Throne  

“And I’m the interim, stop picking fights,” Hyacinthe says, making  Oak want to pick a fight with him. “Is there no situation you’re  not compelled to make worse?” 

― Holly Black, The Prisoner’s Throne  

“That must be what you  about me.” “That you’re terrifying?”  he asked, his drawl becoming exaggeratedly languorous, almost a  purr. “I adore it.” 

― Holly Black, The Prisoner’s Throne  

“I never pretended to feelings that weren’t real,” he manages. She watches him, her body tense, her eyes haunted. “Never? In  the Court of Moths, would you really have endured my kiss if  you didn’t think you needed me on your quest?” He snorts in surprise. “I would have endured it, yes. I would  endure it again right now.” A slight rosiness comes into her cheeks. “That’s not fair.” “This is nonsensical. Surely you could tell I d it,” he  says. “I even d it when you bit me. On the shoulder,  remember? I might have a few tiny scars yet from the oints of  your teeth.” “Don’t be ridiculous,” she tells him, annoyed. “Unfair,” he says. “When I so love being ridiculous.” 

― Holly Black, The Prisoner’s Throne  

“I am not the person you believe me to be,” she says in a rush. He turns back to her, surprised. “That girl you knew. Inside her was always this great rage,  this emptiness. And now it’s all I am.” Wren looks wretched, her  hands pressed together in front of her. Her eyes haunted. Oak thinks of Mellith and her memories. Of her death and Wren’s  birth. Of the way she’s watching him now. “I don’t believe that,” he tells her.” 

― Holly Black, The Prisoner’s Throne  

“You were in her prisons. I have spoken with Tiernan many times  since he returned. I asked him dozens of questions. I know you  sent him away with Madoc to save them both. So tell me, are you  marrying her because you care for her or because you want to  save the world from her?” Oak grimaces. “You didn’t include saving her from the world as  a possibility.” “Is that your reason?” Oriana inquiries. “I care for her,” Oak says. “As the Crown Prince, you have a responsibility to the throne.  When you—” “No.” A thin tendril of worry uncurls inside him at the thought  she,  Madoc, might grow too ambitious on his behalf.  “There’s no reason to believe I will outlive either Jude or  Cardan. No reason for me ever to wear the crown.”“I admit that  once I dreaded the possibility,” Oriana says. “But you’re older  now. And you have a kind heart. That would be a great boon to  Elfhame.” “Jude is doing just fine. And it’s not  she doesn’t have a  kind heart.” Oriana gives him an incredulous look.” 

― Holly Black, The Prisoner’s Throne  

“You need to turn off the part of you that’s thinking,” Madoc  said. “Guilt. Shame. The desire to make people  you. Whatever  is getting in your way, you need to excise it. Cut it out from  your heart. From the time your sword leaves your sheath, put  all that aside and strike!” Oak bit his lip, not sure if that was possible. He d being  d. “Once your sword is out of your sheath, you aren’t Oak anymore.  And you stay that way until the fight is over,” Madoc frowned.  “And you know how to tell the fight is over? All your enemies  are dead. Understand?” 

― Holly Black, The Prisoner’s Throne  

“I love you,” Oak says, because he needs to say it simply, so  she can’t find a way to see a lie in it. He’s smiling because  she came through the woods in a rush, looking for him. Because  he feels ridiculously happy. “Come have a picnic with me.” For a moment, Wren looks utterly horrified. The prince’s thoughts  stagger to a stop. He feels a sharp pain in his chest and fights  to keep the smile on his lips. It’s not that he expected her to return the sentiment. He expected  her to laugh and perhaps be a little flattered. Enjoy the thought  of having a little power over him. He had thought she d him,  even if she found him hard to forgive. He thought she had to   him some to want him. “Well,” he manages, hefting the basket with false lightness.  “Luckily there’s still the picnic.” “You fall in love with the ease of someone slipping into a bath,”  she tells him. “And I imagine you extricate yourself with  somewhat more drama, but no less ease.” Now that was more the sort of thing he was prepared to hear.  “Then I urge you to ignore my outburst.” “I want you to call off the marriage,” she says. He sucks in a breath, stung. Truly, he didn’t expect her to rub  salt in so fresh a wound, although he supposes she gave him no  reason to think she wouldn’t. “That seems  an excessive  response to a declaration of love.” 

― Holly Black, The Prisoner’s Throne  

“I believed I was doomed to lose you,” Hyacinthe says, in a  voice so soft Oak can barely hear it. For a long moment, they are quiet. It seems unly they are going to break into violence. Oak  should go up the rest of the stairs. He doesn’t want to invade  their privacy more than he already has. He needs to go slowly,  though, so they don’t hear his hooves. “Joy is never guaranteed,” Tiernan says, his voice gentle. “But  you can wed yourself to pain. I suppose, at least in that, there  is no chance of surprise.” Oak winces at those words. Wed yourself to pain. “Why would you want me after all I have done?” Hyacinthe asks,  anguished. “Why does anyone want anyone else?” Tiernan answers. “We do not  love because people deserve it—nor would I want to be loved  because I was the most deserving of some list of candidates. I  want to be loved for my worst self as well as my best. I want  to be forgiven my flaws.” “I find it harder to forgive your virtues,” Hyacinthe tells him,  a smile in his voice. And then Oak is up the stairs far enough to be unable to hear the  rest. Which is good, because he hopes it involves a lot of kissing.” 

― Holly Black, The Prisoner’s Throne  

“Even those he cared for, he hid from. Maybe that’s why Wren can’t love him. Maybe that is why it seems  so believable that he may have enchanted everyone in his life into  caring for him. After all, how can anyone love him when no one  really knows him?” 

― Holly Black, The Prisoner’s Throne  

“Oak doesn’t argue with him. He’s tired of arguing with his father.” 

― Holly Black, The Prisoner’s Throne  

“What if I give you Oak’s head instead of Cardan’s?” Jude asks  suddenly. … He knows she’s not serious about her offer. But that doesn’t mean  she’s not serious about wanting to kill him.  How foolish Oak has been, making himself seem  Cardan’s enemy.” 

― Holly Black, The Prisoner’s Throne  

“It’s not safe,” she says. “Not then and not now.” “I know that,” he tells her. “I’m not safe,” she says. “You can’t trust me. I—” “I don’t need safe,” he says and leans down, putting his hands in  her hair. She doesn’t move, looking up at him with lips that are  slightly parted, as though she can’t quite believe what he’s doing. Then he kisses her. Kisses her  he’s wanted to for days and  weeks and what feels  forever. It isn’t in a careful kiss. He can feel her teeth again his tongue,  her dry lips. He can feel the sharp edges of her nails as they dig  into his neck. He shivers with sensation. He doesn’t want careful  any more than he wants safe. He wants her. Wren pulls him down, lower, until they are kneeling in the gardens.  Oak feels dizzy with desire. All around them, the petals of  night-blooming flowers have opened, and their thick perfume scents  the air. “Do you want—?” he starts, but she is already pushing up her dress. “I want,” she says. “That’s my problem. I want and I want and I  want.” “What do you want?” he asks, voice soft. “Everything. Charm me. Rip me open. Ruin me. Go too far.” He shudders at her words, shaking his head against them. She goes on, whispering against his skin. “You cannot understand.  I am a chasm that will never be full. I am hunger. I am need. I  cannot be sated. If you try, I will swallow you up. I will take  all of you and want more. I will use you. I will drain you until  you are nothing more than a husk.” “Use me, then,” he whispers, mouth on her throat. Then her lips are against his, and there is no more talking for a  long time.” 

― Holly Black, The Prisoner’s Throne  

“Concerned about something?” “I mis this place,” Jack says. “Vipers nest,” Oak agrees. “It seems quite the trick to tell the friendly snakes from the  other ones.” “Ah,” Oak says. “They’re all friendly snakes until they bite you.” 

― Holly Black, The Prisoner’s Throne  

“Have you run mad, trusting him?” “Oh, don’t worry,” Oak says. “I’m not sure I trust anyone anymore.  Not even myself.” 

― Holly Black, The Prisoner’s Throne  

“You keep telling me others will do to me what you have already  done. I know what it is to want something so much that you would  rather have the shadow of it than nothing, even if that means you  will never have the real thing. And love is not that.” 

― Holly Black, The Prisoner’s Throne  

“I was never meant to survive.” 

― Holly Black, The Prisoner’s Throne  

“You can’t just keep throwing yourself at things as though you  don’t matter.” 

― Holly Black, The Prisoner’s Throne  

“Mother Marrow told him that Wren’s magic was turned inside out.  A power meant to be used for creation, warped until all it could  do was destroy, annihilate, and unmake. Twisted on itself, a snake  eating its own tail. But perhaps taking apart the storm and being  struck twice by lightning was more than even her magic could devour.  Maybe some of it spilled over. Though she set all her matches alight and burned up with them, maybe  something new could emerge from the ashes. How many girls  Wren can there be, made from sticks and imbued  with a cursed heart? She’s made of magic, more than any of them.” 

― Holly Black, The Prisoner’s Throne  

“In ballads, love is a disease, an affliction. You contract it as  a mortal might contract one of their viruses. Perhaps a touch of  hands or a brush of lips, and then it is as though your whole body  is fevered and fighting it. But there’s no way to prevent it from  running its course.” “That’s a remarkably poetic and profoundly awful view of love,”  Oak says. Tiernan looks back at the sea. “I was never in love before, so  all I had were ballads to go by.” Oak is silent, thinking of all the times he thought himself to  be in love. “Never?” Tiernan gives a soft huff of breath. “I had lovers, but that’s  not the same thing.” Oak thinks about how to name what he feels about Wren. He does  not wish to write her ridiculous poems as he did for so many of  the people with whom he thought he was in love, except that he  does wish to make her laugh. He does not want to give her  enormous speeches or to make grand, empty gestures; he does not  want to give her the pantomime of love. He is starting to  suspect, however, that pantomime is all he knows.“But…” Tiernan  says, and hesitates again, running hand through is short  blackberry hair. “What I feel is not  the ballads.” “Not an affliction, then?” Oak raises an eyebrow. “No fever?” Tiernan gives him an exasperated look—one with which the prince  is very familiar. “It is more the feeling that there is a part  of me I have left somewhere and am always looking for.” “So he’s  a missing phone?” “Someone ought to pitch you into the sea,” Tiernan says, but he  has a small smile in the corner of his mouth.” 

― Holly Black, The Prisoner’s Throne  

“Once, I thought I might return to my mortal home, but I cannot  imagine it now. How could they see me as that child, when I  would frighten them, even without knowing the nature of my magic?” “They don’t have to see you as a child to care for you,” he says. “They would never love me as much as I want to be loved,” she  tells him with painful honesty.” 

― Holly Black, The Prisoner’s Throne  

“Come back to me,” he says. But Wren is silent and still. Oak let’s go of his power, cursing himself. He glanced up o  helplessly at Jude, who looks back at him and shakes her head.  “I’m sorry.” It is a very human thing for her to say. He lets his head fall forward until his forehead his touching  Wren’s. Gathering her in his arms, he studies the hollowness of her  cheeks and the thinness of her skin. Presses a finger to the  edge of her mouth. Oak thought his magic was just finding what people wanted to  hear and saying it in the way they wanted, but since he’s let  himself really use the power, he discovered that he can use it  to find truth. And for once, he needs to tell her the truth.  “I thought love was a fascination, or a desire to be around  someone, or wanting to make them happy. I believed it just  happened,  a slap to the face, and left the way the sting  from such a blow fades. That’s why it was easy for me to believe  it could be false or manipulated or influenced by magic. Until I met you, I didn’t understand to feel loved, one has to  feel known. And that, outside of my family, I had never really  loved because I hadn’t bothered to know the other person. But I  know you. And you have to come back to me, Wren, because no one  gets us but us. You know why you’re not a monster, but I might  be. I know why throwing me in your dungeon meant there was still  something between us. We are messes and we are messed up and I  don’t want to go through this world without the one person I  can’t hide from and who can’t hide from me. Come back,” he says again, tears burning the back of his throat.  “You want and you want and you want, remember? Well, wake up and  take what you want.” He presses his mouth against her forehead. And startles when he hears her drawn in a breath. Her eyes open,  and for a moment she stares up at him. “Wren?” Bex says, and smacks Oak on the shoulder. “What did you  do?” Then she pulls the prince into her arms and hugs him hard. Jude is staring, hand to her mouth. Bogdana stays back, glowering, perhaps hoping that no one noticed  she rent her garments with her nails as she watched and waited. “I’m cold,” Wren whispers, and alarm rings through him  the  sound of a bell. She could walk barefoot through the snow and not  have it hurt her. He had never heard her complain of even the most  frigid temperatures. Oak stands, lifting Wren in his arms. She feels too light, but he  is reassured by her breath ghosting across his skin, the rise and  fall of her chest. He still cannot, however, hear the beat of her heart. With the storm stopped, it seems that all of Elfhame has forded  the distance between Insear and Insmire. There are boats aplenty,  and soldiers. Grima Mic’s second-in-command is barking orders. Bex scavenges a blanket from one of the tents, and Oak manages to  bundle Wren in it. Then he Carrie’s her to a boat and commandeers  it to take him across so he can bring her to the palace. The  journey is a blur of panic, of frantic questions, plodding steps.  Finally, he carries her into his rooms. By then, her body is  shivering, and he tries not to let terror leak into his voice as  he speaks to her softly, explaining where they are and how she will  be safe. He puts Wren in his bed, then pushes it close by the fire and piles  blankets on top of her. It seems to make no difference to her  shuddering.” 

― Holly Black, The Prisoner’s Throne  

“Until I met you, I didn’t understand to feel loved, one has to  feel known.” 

― Holly Black, The Prisoner’s Throne  

“So we are agreed. We delay the exchange of vows. Your sister will  have a reason to send me back north with a kingdom of my own, and  we will let her believe that her plan to separate us has worked.  You can take up with any number of courtiers to drive the point  home. Drown whatever lingering feelings you have for me in a new  love, or ten.” She says the last bit with some asperity. He put a hand to his chest. “Have you no feelings to drown?” Wren looks down. “No,” she says. “Nothing I have would I ever want  to give away.” ― Holly Black, The Prisoner’s Throne