It’s so damned useless! The dead hand of the past goes on jerking the strings by galvanic reflex, and we poor puppets dance—nothing is served, not us… - Lois McMaster Bujold

He had looked forward to making posthumous reports to Illyan. Now he wondered if he was going to live long enough.

Penric smiled and advanced, feeling dimly that the first thing a man said to his intended’s respected mother probably shouldn’t be Quick, take your clothes off!

“What are you doing?” the Countess asked.…
“Just…wrestling with temptation.”
Illyan’s voice came back, amused. “Who’s winning?”
Miles’s eye followed the cracks in the plaster, overhead. His voice came out high and light, on a sigh: “I think…I’m going for the best two falls out of three.”