Something snapped inside Maryse. “He is not a Herondale. He is a Lightwood. Jace Lightwood. He’s my son.

My rapier wit hides my inner pain.

If you knew how to cook, maybe I would eat," Jace muttered.

Isabelle froze, her spoon poised dangerously. "What did you say?"

Jace edged toward the fridge. "I said I'm going to look for a snack to eat."

That's what I thought you said." Isabelle turned her attention to the soup.

There are ways in which we’re so alike. We’re reckless. We don’t think before we act. We’ll do anything for people we love. And I never thought how scary that was for the people who loved me until I saw

And the Clave wants to meet Clarissa. You know that, Jace."
"The Clave can screw itself."
"Jace," Maryse said, sounding genuinely parental for a change. "Language."
"The Clave wants a lot of things," Jace amended. "It shouldn't necessarily get them all.

Love is a contradiction.