Father Chains sat on the roof of the House of Perelandro, staring down at the astonishingly arrogant fourteen-year-old that had grown out of the little orphan he’d purchased so many years before from the Thiefmaker of Shades’ Hill.

       “Someday, Locke Lamora,” he said, “someday, you’re going to ♥♥♥♥ up so magnificently, so ambitiously, so overwhelmingly that the sky will light up and the moons will spin and the gods themselves will ♥♥♥♥ comets with glee. And I just hope I’m still around to see it.”

       “Oh, please,” said Locke. “It’ll never happen.”