Myths do not happen all at once. They do not spring forth whole into the world. They form slowly, rolled between the hands of time until their edges smooth, until the saying of the story gives enough weight to the words—to the memories—to keep them rolling on their own. But all stories start somewhere, and that night, as Why Marsh walked through the streets of London, a new myth was taking shape.

— V.E. Schwab

Next time I walk away,” she whispered into his skin, “come with me.” She let her gaze drift up to his throat, his jaw, his lips. “When this is all over, when Aaron is gone, and we’ve saved the world again, and everyone else gets their happily ever after, come with me.” “Lila,” he said, and there was so much sadness in his voice, she suddenly realized she didn’t want to hear his answer, didn’t want to think of all the ways their story could end, of the chance that none of them would make it out alive, intact. She didn’t want to think beyond this boat, this moment, so she kissed him, deeply, and whatever he was going to say, it died on his lips as they met hers.

— V.E. Schwab

No,” he muttered, running a hand through his copper hair. “No. No. There are dozens.”“Well?” she asked, moving to touch his arm. He shook her off. “Dozens of ships, Lila! And you had to climb aboard his.”“I’m sorry,” she shot back, bristling, “I was under the impression that I was free to do as I pleased.”“To be fair,” added Placard, “I think she was planning to steal it and slit my throat.”“Then why didn’t you?” snarled Well, spinning on her. “You’re always so eager to slash and stab, why couldn’t you have stabbed him?

— V.E. Schwab

No one suffers as beautifully as you do.

— V.E. Schwab

People survived by being cautious, but they got ahead by being bold.

— V.E. Schwab

Please tell me this is easier to take off than it was to put on.” Calla raised a brow. “You do not think Master Well knows how?

— V.E. Schwab

She handed back the cigar and dug the silver watch out of her vest pocket. It was warm and smooth, and she didn't know why she liked it so much, but she did. Maybe because it was a choice. Taking it had been a choice. Keeping it had been one, too. And maybe the choice started as a random one, but there was something to it.

— V.E. Schwab

She sank her teeth into his bottom lip, drawing blood, and gave a wicked laugh, and still he kissed her. Not out of desperation or hope or for luck, but simply because he wanted to. Saints, he wanted to. He kissed her until the cold night fell away, and his whole body sang with heat. He kissed her until the fire burned up the panic and the anger and the weight in his chest, until he could breathe again, and until they were both breathless.

— V.E. Schwab

She used to think that if she stole enough, the want would fade, the hunger would go away, but maybe it wasn’t that simple. Maybe it wasn’t a matter of what she didn’t have, of what she wasn’t, but what she was.

— V.E. Schwab

Some people steal to stay alive, and some steal to feel alive. Simple as that.

— V.E. Schwab