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It’s always fire with Baz. I can’t believe he hasn’t incinerated me yet.
he has a face so symmetrical, you could summon a demon on it.
worsegers—like badgers, but worse—
LOL
(You have to pretend that you get an endgame. You have to carry on like you will; otherwise, you can’t carry on at all.)
And that’s the problem with all the Pitches and their allies—it’s impossible to tell when they’re up to something and when they’re just being people.
What’s your problem?” “You,” he says, throwing his bag down. “Always you.”
(You can’t even find fairies anymore.) (And it isn’t because we ate them all.)
“Mum says she always knew Aunt Beryl would take her bad attitude to hell with her.”
💀
“Is he racist?” I ask. “Isn’t he a race?
Simon💀💀💀
(Just when you think you’re having a scene without Simon, he drops in to remind you that everyone else is a supporting character in his catastrophe.)
He’s looking at me like I’m a complete freak. (Which we both already knew was true.)
Rome wasn’t built on mutual admiration.
He’s a book full of footnotes brought to life. He’s a jacket made of elbow patches.
This was like being struck by benevolent lightning.
(People who tell you that slamming and bashing into things won’t make you feel better haven’t slammed or bashed enough.)
(Crowley, could you imagine vampire babies? What a nightmare.)
This house is so big, it could absorb a mob and still seem empty.
Nicodemus looks like he’s about to hatch a plan. Even as a first year.
But he’s the most familiar thing in this house, and I fall asleep better, listening to Baz breathe, than I have since winter break started.
💞💞
Can you imagine having the Mage for an ex? He’s everywhere.”
“I’ve never turned my back on you. And I’m not starting now.”
“What a pair of splendid morons you are! Did you take photos?”
I love her
The vibe here is very, Let’s kill a virgin and write a great Led Zeppelin album.
Simon looks stunning in a grey suit.
“We aren’t conspiring against the Mage!” Penny argued. “We’re conspiring … apart from him.”
Penelope casts, “Time flies!”—but neither of us are having any fun, so it doesn’t work.
I feel like a phoenix rebirthed itself in my lower intestines.
“I wouldn’t give you that much credit, Simon. You’re exceedingly thick.
Nicodemus is wearing a cheap blazer over a white T-shirt, black jeans with a wallet chain, and ancient steel-toed Doc Martens. It’s clear what my ridiculous aunt saw in him.
Why come up with a spell for sticking paper to the wall? Tape. Exists.)
I don’t have any spare trust lying around, and if I did, I wouldn’t give it to Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch.
“But—I just wanted to tell you that I’m going to carry on. As I am.
“Don’t laugh at me,” he says. “When will I ever laugh, then?”
“Carry on, Simon.”
