Chain of Iron (The Last Hours, #2)

by Cassandra Clare

nothing ever happened as it did in books.

Often Grace didn’t seem to grasp why people did things if the answer was because that’s how friends behave or because that’s what you do for someone you’re fond of.

“Love doesn’t always make sense,” she said, and at that, Alastair looked quickly away.

“You always do find the most decadent possible solution to any problem.” “I believe that decadence is a valuable perspective that should always be considered.”

“I am that irreplaceable thing, the eager audience.”

“You need not marry a man who does not love you, you know.”

“Matthew has a habit of getting his heart broken. He seems to prefer a hopeless love.”

He might not be able to control his heart or his thoughts, but he could remove the bracelet. That much lay within his power.

“Whatever happens, we will always be sisters.”

“A penny is very little,” she said, keeping her voice light with an effort. “My thoughts are most interesting and should require a greater outlay of cash.”

“I’m polishing the book,” she said. “It requires polishing. All novels must be polished, like diamonds.”

“Don’t have too much hope, Lucie. Sometimes hope is dangerous.”

The girl who had existed before she went into the stone room—that girl was gone.

“Well, you know what they say,” said James. “All the best men are either married or Silent Brothers.”

It seemed it had never occurred to her mother—and would not have mattered to her if it had—that just as it was a torment to love, it might be a torment to be loved. To be loved, and to know it was not real.

Love is a rarity in this world, and true friendship, too.

‘For I am persuaded, that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor demons, nor principalities, nor powers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature, shall be able to separate us.’ ”

“It’s my understanding,” Cordelia said, “that the question is never whether you know Magnus Bane. The question is always whether Magnus Bane knows you.”

It felt such a relief, not to be facing it all alone.

All one had to do was pretend, she realized, marveling a bit, and everyone else would fall into line pretending along with you.

His gaze clung to hers, as if he did not want to look away, although she knew it was only her imagination.

“I believe in forgiveness, you know. In grace. Even for the worst things we do.”

A space that belonged to just her and James, where no visitors could or would come. An intimacy she could not fathom.

Books, of course, everywhere. This was where he had put his beloved poetry books—Wordsworth and Byron and Shelley and Pope, next to Homer and Wilde.

She thought of The Ballad of Reading Gaol: “Each man kills the thing he loves.” Cordelia wondered if it was possible to kill the thing you loved with embarrassment.

Do you not see how necessary a world of pains and troubles is to school an intelligence and make it a soul?

The teasing and laughter after was often the best part; Cordelia had loved James as a friend before she’d ever loved him another way, and this was when she was reminded why.

There wasn’t a part of him she’d seen yet that she didn’t think was beautiful. It was nearly unfair.

She would have this to look back on when she was old and gnarled like a tree trunk—a year of happiness married to a boy she adored. Some people never had so much as that.

“We have talked so much of travel,” James said. “I wanted to give you the world.”

“Most people are boring,” said Matthew. “Being married or not has little to do with it.”

“Why come to parties, then?” Cordelia demanded. “If you find everyone so dull.” “People are dull. Gossiping about them is never dull.

“And only an ass puts other people into situations in which they need to be rescued at all.”

“You don’t understand,” he said. “When I am with you, I imagine that my heart is beating, though it has not beaten for seven years. You give me so much, and I can give you nothing at all.”

Contrary to what your beloved poets say, unrequited love doesn’t last forever. And being treated badly by someone doesn’t make you love them more.”

Love leads to pain, but if you are careful with the way you wield it… you can use it to wound, as well.”

But I was one-and-twenty, No use to talk to me.

“Because,” Ariadne said, “when you want something very much, you are willing to accept the shadow of that thing. Even if it is just a shadow.”

“That love is complicated,” said Cordelia. “That it lies beside anger and hatred, because only those we truly love can truly disappoint us.”

“Death is a jealous mistress,” Lucie whispered. “She fights to keep you.” “I am not hers,” he said. “I am yours for as long as I can be.” “Stay,” she said, and closed her eyes.

She had never understood before: how bitter it was to have power, and not be able to turn it to any kind of good.

She had never experienced anything like this before. The world was unfolding before them, promising the unknown. Every mile they drove made the ache in her chest recede further.

“Lucie, begin. As the demons of Hell are battled upstairs, so we shall battle the demons of romantic prose in the drawing room.”

She had an excuse, she supposed, beyond unrequited love. She was watching over him.

Night had only just fallen, and the sunset brushed the sky with copper and flame. It was one of those times, Lucie thought, when the world seemed improbably big, and full of possibilities.

“You have always believed love came at a cost,” said Matthew. “That it was torment and torture and pain. But there should be some joy. There is joy in being with someone you love, even knowing you can never have them, even knowing they will never love you back.”

Love should bring you happiness, at least in the imagining of what your lives will eventually be like when you are together. What will your future with her be like? Tell me how you think of it.”

Despite everything, she drowned in the delight of it.

“Mortals cannot see the greater movements of the game, the strategy or goals. But that does not mean one need be a pawn on the board.”

One equal temper of heroic hearts, Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.