Storytellers are always suspect. They are exotic strangers, swallows who stay only for the heady days of sunshine. Where they go after that is a mystery. They’re welcomed for the tales that will be told again through dark winter evenings. They have an honoured place by the fire, but like any guest who knows his welcome depends on not outstaying it, they are expected to move on quickly. They don’t belong. You wouldn’t want your daughter to marry one, in case your grandchildren turned out as fey as the creatures they tell stories about. Could you really trust someone who is in the habit of conversation with sorcerers or who freely utters the names of those who must not be named?
Karen Maitland, Company of Liars