The world should have been in Technicolour, but seemed more like black and white.
Flying into a storm, even its outer edges, did not seem like a good idea to me. And this was no ordinary tempest. Everyone on the bridge knew what it was: the Devil's Fist, a near-eternal typhoon that migrated about the North Indian basin year-round. She was infamous, and earned her name by striking airships out of the sky.
I'm cursed with this puritanical streak that makes me want everything to be about something. It's a terrible affliction.
The more I worked on 'Half Brother,' the more it seemed to me the story was really about love in all its possible forms - how and why we decide to bestow it, or withdraw it; how we decide what is more worthy of being loved, and what is less. We are masters of conditional love.
You two were in a cave together?β said Miss Simpkins in horror. βYes,β said Kate, βand it was very, very dark.