For five years it had been his absolute truth. Jem and Will. Will and Jem. Will Herondale lives, therefore Jem Carstairs lives also.

Isabella with her whip and boots and knives would chop anyone who tried to pen her up in a tower into pieces, build a bridge out of the remains, and walk carelessly to freedom, her hair looking fabulous the entire time.

It was a very bad idea. It was a terrible idea. It was the worst idea he had ever heard. It was irresistible.

Is that why you didn't call me? Because I'm an idiot?

I see you're determined to miss my point." "If you're point is that there was a pretty girl in the room and it was distracting you, then I think I've taken your point handily." "You think she's pretty?" Will was surprised; Jem rarely opinioned this sort of thing. "Yes, and you do too." "I hadn't noticed, really." "Yes, you have, and I've noticed you noticing.

No one can live with nothing.

Mundies die awfully easily, don't they?" "Isabelle, you know it's bad luck to talk about death in a sickroom.