The Ragpicker King (The Chronicles of Castellane, #2)

by Cassandra Clare

Conor pushes his hair out of his eyes; it is a habitual gesture he and Kel share. Or perhaps Kel has simply learned it from Conor; it is hard to know with them where anything originates.

He looked very young for a moment, and she wondered if she could see in him the boy he had been long ago, when Kel had met him and thought: This is someone I would give my life to protect.

Conor yawned, stretching his lean body. His hair was a mess, as if he’d been sleeping on his desk again. Kel felt that familiar sharp pain that he knew was love mixed with remorse. For how badly he wanted to protect Conor. For the secrets he was keeping.

I must admit, I am impressed. I did not even see him leave. What was so urgent that he felt obligated to flee this celebration of his own dynasty?” Him. Neither he nor Anjelica, Kel reflected, felt the need to use Conor’s name. He was the planet around which they revolved; there could be only one him.

Even Conor’s pace was familiar to him. He would have known it anywhere. If I were dead and buried and those feet walked over my grave, I would know those footsteps.

Kel was not sure how long he had been in the Trick now—three days? It was the longest he had gone in fifteen years without seeing Conor Aurelian.

“You gave the amulet to Conor,” he said. “How sure were you that he’d use it the way he did?” “You forget, I know him, too. Not as well as you, but well enough. He never has cared about anything more than he cared about you.”

“I told you at the Roverges’ that I wanted the silk Charter,” she said. “I wanted Gremont’s Charter, too. Not for myself—I couldn’t have held it, I know that. But I could have given it to someone.” “You would have…sold it?” Kel said. “I don’t—” “No, you don’t,” she said furiously. “I can’t believe you came here thinking you had everything all figured out, Kel Saren. You don’t understand anything. I wanted it for you.”