"You have the Spark," he said, kneeling to her level. "Not the petty fire of matches or gasoline. The first fire. The one Prometheus stole. The one that makes stars jealous."
It listens.
Her grandmother, a woman of river-stone silence, put a hand on Clara's shoulder. "Do not go with the ash-hearted," she whispered. "Your fire is for bread and birth. His fire is for thrones." clara dee fuego
"You see?" Mr. Cinder smiled. "Sentiment is just slow combustion. We burn it out of you." "You have the Spark," he said, kneeling to her level