The magical force that had sundered everything in the castle had occasionally made some very odd choices in its destruction—Sand found a hammer that had been broken only at the wooden handle and not any of the metal parts, and another hammer whose handle was whole while the metal was broken.

You’re not mending anything, remember, Sand? The hedge.” He paused and shook his head at himself. “And Perrotte’s away for a few minutes, and you’re talking to yourself again.

And turnips - endless ruptured turnips.

Are you suggesting we eat cursed fruit? Vicious fruit? Attacking fruit?

How did you get into the castle, Alexandre, son of Gilles Smith?”
Sand shrugged. “A saint kidnapped me from his shrine and put me into a fireplace here. So I guess the answer is, a miracle of Saint Melor. Or so I think. He has not told me.”
“If you are trying to antagonize him, you are doing a good job,” Perrotte whispered.
Sand scuffed his shoe at her. “I’m just telling the truth!”
“You’re very good at telling it in the most maddening way possible.”
“Thank you?

I’m alive,” he groaned. “But I’m not doing a very good job of it.