I wouldn't call that an instrument of music," Ragnor observed sourly. "An instrument of torture, perhaps.

This was a voice that drew out memories stretched thin by years of recollection, like paper unfolded and refolded too many times. A voice that brought back, like a wave, the memory of another time on this bridge, a night so long ago, everything black and silver and the river rushing away under her feet.

How strange to have the power to literally transform yourself into other people, and yet be so unable to put yourself in their place.

I can offer you my life, but it is a short life; I can offer you my heart, though I have no idea how many more beats it shall sustain

Simon: 'You know men. We have delicate egos.' Clary: 'I wouldn't describe Jace's ego as delicate.' Simon: 'No, Jace's is sort of the antiaircraft artillery tank of male egos.

I thought you were dead,” she went on. “I saw you fall down, and—I thought you were dead.

OR am I the only warlock you know?" "No... but you are the only warlock we know who happens to dating a friend of ours.