“Fifteen ten,” said your sister Lyctor, as soon as she noticed you.

You said, “Eight thirty-four,” and she said, “My God! Hark at the creature. Eight thirty-four … and such a dreadful pity that it doesn’t even matter.”

She was in a filthy mood, if she was wearing that thing, with her arm exposed. You were not in the best frame of mind yourself.

It was getting chillier. The wind howled against the darkened window. There was no good weather in her brain. She said, “We are in the River.”

“Yes,” said Abigail. “That was my first realisation.”

“This is my creation.”

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“Close the door and I’ll call you Nonagesimus.”

There were a few academic reasons that you closed the door, and from the inside, rather than behind you as you left. Her quarters held some measure of safety for you, as she warded with the paranoid focus of an escaped murderer, and therefore half as tightly as you did.

Harrow the Ninth - Act Two, Chapter Thirteen

“They killed you,” said Aiglamene.
“Crime of opportunity,” said the corpse prince. And: “Don’t tell Crux—I absolutely, positively cannot give him the f**king satisfaction.”
Aiglamene shoved her square in the chest, with the palm of one gloved hand; Kiriona tottered a little and wheezed, “Don’t—that’s where my heart used to be,” but the old soldier’s gaze had already fallen upon Nona.

Nona the Ninth - Day Five, Chapter Thirty-One

He did not anticipate you throwing yourself at him with the only biddable bone you had left, which was your own. Great spurs burst through the heels of your hands from your carpal bones, and you slashed, wildly, at his chest, at his face, at the arm holding the crimson-ribboned rapier. You had extended your curved, bloodied talons of trapezoid and capitate into him, through the fabric of his shabby shirt, into the meat of his pectoral muscles, before he bounced your head back against the doorjamb. The back of your skull smashed into the steel casing, but he was falling back, and he was taking you with him. As Ortus staggered over the threshold into the bedroom you had a split second’s perception of your broken wards lying in heaps and desiccated clumps by the door, your regenerating ash all dried up on the threshold like so many ancient clags.

He dropped his sword to wrench your claws out of his chest, and you understood what he had done. He took your bloody spurs between his fingers, and the blood fell away into powder as he stripped away the thanergy. He did not absorb it or try to turn it back on you; he simply undid it, with the dismissive ease of upending a jug of water over a drain. The spikes of living bone, freshly grown from your own body, faded in seconds into brittle twigs. They snapped off in his hands and he tossed them aside.

Harrow the Ninth - Act Three, Chapter Twenty-Four

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She latched on to the ripped edges of her wall and drove outward, hard, hurling the Sleeper backward off her feet and through the air. The shattered lumps of debris she spun upward into constructs—so easy even now, easy since she’d been a child—one, two, three, four clattering skeletons flinging themselves onto the attacker to rip and wrench with fleshless hands. The Sleeper was on her feet to meet them. She shot the first through the skull and the whole body resolved into ash, which was not how it worked—did the same to the second—the third managed to lay hold of her free arm before it got a bullet through its spinal column and crumbled into garbage. Harrow’s ears pounded and her head throbbed and her skin felt wet, and she dragged up four more to follow them.

Harrow the Ninth - Act Five, Chapter Forty-Nine

A chip of bone floated near where the rapier had clipped your rib. You popped it out of yourself and from that almost-living bone sprang femurs, melted on either side into patella, into pelvis, into a skeleton seething with regrowing ash. You tore one of your construct’s ribs from its cage before it hurled itself at the necrosaint, and the rib you wrenched free had enormous and generous give: the bubbly innards separated from the strong, compact cortex as though created for that very purpose. The centre for shape, the outside for strength. The whole crumbled in your palms when you squeezed. You were borne up by a current of bone, twenty sets of arms sprung from tubercles you had made sticky and thrust into the ground, enfolding you in an armoured nest of skeletal limbs.

You marvelled at how easy it was. You barely had to think of it and it would be done, at a cost you considered negligible.

Harrow the Ninth - Act Two, Chapter Nineteen

He stepped back and bowed to her. It was an unpretentious, entirely modest movement. In The Noniad it might have taken half a page. There was no time for him to make any kind of speech, but despite over twelve books of Ortus celebrating his verbosity, he did not seem the type of man to make one; all he said was, “Many thanks, and farewell. Spirit-guide of the Fifth, can you send us four to the shore’s edge?”

“Easily,” Abigail said. She stepped forward and put one hand on Protesilaus’s and Ortus’s shoulders, and she peered through her thick glasses at them, and said quickly: “Are you—”

“For the Seventh,” said Protesilaus.