Chain of Iron (The Last Hours, #2)

by Cassandra Clare

“Why,” he said, “are you not even wearing a hat?” “And cover up this hair?” Matthew indicated his golden locks with a flourish. “Would you blot out the sun?”

“At least her marriage is publicly recognized. When I married Nate, no one even wanted to hear about it.” “Well, that’s probably because he was a murderer, Jessamine.”

“She said, ‘The one from the circus is here,’ ” translated Cordelia, giving Risa a mock-stern look. “She means Matthew. She disapproves of his waistcoats.”

“My attempts to charm her have not been successful,” Matthew observed. “Risa is a sensible woman,” said James.

“Must we keep bringing up my brother? Alastair may be many things, but he is not a murderer.” “I just like to blame him for things,” Matthew said a bit sheepishly.

“Christopher, do you have a map of London?” “I am a scientist,” said Christopher, “not a geographer! I don’t have a map of London. I do have a beaker of Raum venom,” he added, “but it’s in my shoe, and will be difficult to reach.” “Does anyone have questions about that?” James said, glancing around. “No? Good. All right, a map—”

“Who would want to raise Leviathan?” Christopher wondered aloud. “Surely any of the other Princes of Hell would be less… disgusting.” “He might be considered quite handsome by other sea demons,” said Anna. “We can’t know.”

She stepped into a small square hall, an entryway of sorts, where one’s eye was drawn compulsively to the massive neoclassical vase standing in one corner. It was of the Greek sort, the kind a maiden would use to pour oil into a bath, though in this case that maiden would have to be twenty feet tall. It was painted all over with faux Greek figures engaged in either combat or passionate embrace, Cordelia could not tell. “I see you’ve noticed my vase,” Matthew said.