Isabelle was holding an umbrella. It was clear plastic, decorated with decals of colorful flowers. It was one of the girliest things Simon had ever seen, and he didn’t blame Alec for ducking out from under it and taking his chances with the rain.

But you hate poetry! Yes, but you make me want to write it.

You love him as a falcon loves his master who binds and blinds it.

The thing about the Mirror is that no one knows where it is. In fact, no one knows what it is.” "It’s a mirror,” Simon said. “You know – reflective, glass. I’m just assuming.

He produced a handkerchief—crisply folded—and handed it to her. She took it with silent astonishment. She’d never before known anyone who carried a handkerchief.

I know," he said, looking down at himself self-consciously. "I am not-I mean, I look-" "Beautiful," she said, and she meant it. "You look beautiful, James Carstairs.

Will you do me the honor of being my wife?