Joan Aiken

Words are like spices. Too many is worse than too few.

They came to the high stone shaft with the face of Sul; they descended to the terrace below. And here Caradog waited, leaning on his silver-tipped rod and eying the horizon, until the delicate slip of the new moon moved out from behind the shoulder of Mount Damyake, with the mysterious, shadowy ghost of the old moon cradle inside it, like an egg inside its egg cup."Now it is time," he

But this is your home''Not any longer, my poppet. Women make nests but men make bequests and scatter them. Heigh-ho!

Her smile was like a swift light passing across a darkened room.("Hair")