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“If she could have anything in the world, he'd asked her, what would it be?

She'd answered that one without hesitation: a best friend. She hastily added, a truly, seriously best friend; one that I couldn't wait to talk to first thing in the morning as soon as I woke up, and one that I still wanted to be talking to, right up to the last minute before I went to sleep.

He'd smiled faintly. You mean a soul mate, he'd thought but not said.”
― Karen Marie Moning, Spell of the Highlander

“When did having a life become an event you had to schedule?”
― Karen Marie Moning, Spell of the Highlander

“She shrugged, looking as baffled by it as he felt. "I don't know. I wonder sometimes if people even know what love is anymore. Some days, when I'm watching my friends change lovers as unperturbedly as they change shoes, I think the world just got filled with too many people, and all our technological advances made things so easy that it cheapened our most basic, essential value somehow," she told him. "It's like spouses are commodities nowadays: disposable, constantly getting tossed back out for trade on the market and everyone's trying to trade up, up--like there is a 'trading up' in love." She rolled her eyes. "No way. That's not for me. I'm having one husband. I'm getting married once. When you know going in that you're staying for life, it makes you think harder about it, go slower, choose really well.”
― Karen Marie Moning, Spell of the Highlander

“Seventeen more days,â€� Jessi breathed wonderingly. “God, you must be climbing the . . . er, walls . . . or whatever’s in there, huh?â€�
“A²â±ð.â€�
“So, just what is in there, anyway?� She tested the glass by shaking it gently, and deemed it secure enough. It shouldn’t slide now.
“Stone,� he said flatly.
“And what else?�
“Stone. Gray. Of varying sizes.� His voice dropped to a colorless monotone. “Fifty-two thousand nine hundred and eighty-seven stones. Twenty-seven
thousand two hundred and sixteen of them
are a slightly paler gray than the rest. Thirty-six thousand and four are more rectangular than square. There are nine hundred and eighteen that have a
vaguely hexagonal shape. Ninety-two of
them have a vein of bronze running through the face. Three are cracked. Two paces from the center is a stone that protrudes slightly above the rest, over which I tripped for the first few
centuries. Any other questions?�
Jessi flinched as his words impacted her, taking her breath away. Her chest and throat felt suddenly tight. Uh, yeah, like, how did you stay sane in
there? What kept you from going stark raving mad? How did you survive over a thousand years in such a hell?
She didn’t ask because it would have been like asking a mountain why it was still standing, as it had been since the dawn of time, perhaps reshaped in subtle ways, but there, always there. Barring cataclysmic planetary upheaval, forever there. The man was strong—not just physically, but mentally and
emotionally. A rock of a man, the kind
a woman could lean on through the worst of times and never have to worry that things might fall apart, because a man like him simply wouldn’t let them.”
― Karen Marie Moning, Spell of the Highlander

“Nope,â€� she managed. “No other questions.â€�
Eleven centuries of captivity. Hung on his hated enemy’s study wall. Eleven centuries of not touching. Not eating. Not loving. Had he had anyone to talk
to?
Her face must have betrayed her thoughts, for he startled her by saying softly, � ’Tis no longer of
consequence, lass, but thank you for the compassion. ’Tis nigh over. Seventeen more days, Jessica. That’s all.�
For some reason his words brought a sudden hot burn of tears to the backs of her eyes. Not only hadn’t eleven centuries turned him into a monster, he was trying to soothe her, to make her feel better about his imprisonment.
“You weep for me, woman?�
She turned away. “It’s been a long day. Hell, it’s been a long week.�
“Jessica.� Her name was a soft command.
She disobeyed it, staring out the window at the rolling hills.
“Jessica, look at me.�
Eyes bright with unshed tears, she whipped her head around and glared at him. “I weep for you, okay?� she snapped. “For eleven centuries stuck in there. Can I start driving again or do you need something else?�
He smiled faintly, raised his hand, and splayed his palm against the inside of the silvery glass. Without an ounce of conscious thought, her hand rose to
meet his, aligning on the cool silver,
palm to palm, finger to finger, thumb to thumb. And though she felt only a cold hardness beneath her palm, the gesture made something go all warm and soft in her heart.
Neither of them spoke or moved for a moment.”
― Karen Marie Moning, Spell of the Highlander

“But he didn't need to seek visual confirmation of what he'd just heard to know she had. And the truth was, he couldn't blame her. He'd not have let her die, either. He'd have moved mountains. He'd have battled God or Devil for his wife's life.

She'd betrayed him.

He smiled faintly.”
― Karen Marie Moning, Spell of the Highlander