My name is Herondale," the boy said cheerfully. "William Herondale, but everyone calls me Will. Is this really your room? Not very nice, is it?" He wandered toward the window, pausing to examine the stacks of books on her bedside table, and then the bed itself. He waved a hand at the ropes. "Do you often sleep tied to the bed?

I love you, Tessa, and I have loved you, almost since the moment I met you.

We are chained to this life by a chain of gold, and we dare not sever it for fear of what lies beyond the drop.

The truth is that I love Simon like I should love you, and I wish that he was my brother and you weren't." - Clary

Beautiful. He'd called her beautiful. Nobody had ever called her that before, except her mother, which didn't count. Mothers were required to think you were beautiful.

Tatiana's eyes were huge and poison-green, eyes with enough pain in them to eat away at a world and devour a soul.

Don't make it sound like that. Like some ordinary sort of grief. It's not like that. They say time heals all wounds, but that presumes the source of the grief is finite. Over. This is a fresh wound every day.