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“Annabel will not be at peace,” said Malcolm. His purple eyes looked like bruises in his pale face. “Not without me.”
Cherry brandy.
Once for all; I knew to my sorrow, often and often, if not always, that I loved [Estella] against reason, against promise, against peace, against hope, against happiness, against all discouragement that could be. Once for all; I loved her none the less because I knew it. —Charles Dickens, Great Expectations
She had underestimated Eugenia, Ariadne thought. She would make an excellent spy.
These bodies did not decay, but remained intact, and were preserved in the Iron Tombs, a place forbidden to most Shadowhunters.
Jesse looked at the sky. James said, in some surprise, “Do you mind?” “It’s not that,” Jesse said. “I was only going to say—you might as well look through my house, because I’ve been in all of yours.”
The world shrank down to only Ari: her hands, her eyes, her smile. Nothing else mattered.
“If it were not for you, my Daisy, I would have belonged to Belial long ago. For
there is no one else in this world, my most beautiful, maddening, adorable wife, that I could ever have loved half as much as I have loved you. My heart beats for you,” he said. “Only ever you.”
“A mistake anyone could make,” said Jesse.
“Whomever it was that I loved,” Rupert said, “that woman is gone now. It seems she has been gone for years. Tatiana Blackthorn, I renounce you. I renounce any feeling that I ever had for one who bore your name.” He gazed at her impassively. “You are nothing to me.”
Ever since Bridget had recovered from her injury at Westminster, she had been wildly active in the kitchen: in fact, she’d seemed to have more energy than ever. The gray threads had disappeared from her head; Will had remarked that it was as if she were aging backward. Even her songs had become more frequent, and more gruesome.
“When we are home?” said James softly. “Here we are, with all those we love, and those who love us. We are home.”