james-herondale

Matthew held out his hands. __ax,_ he said, wheedlingly. __et it be peace between us. You can pour the rest of the port on my head.__ames_ mouth curved up into a smile. It was impossible to stay angry with Matthew. It was almost impossible to get angry at Matthew.

[Kieran]his head propped on a stack of poetry books he__ brought from the library. Almost all of them had been inscribed on the inside cover by a James Herondale, who had neatly written out his favorite lines.

And what do you like to do, little man?" "I like-books," James had said. While standing in the bookshop, with a parcel of books under his arm. The lady had given him a pitying look. "I read-erm-rather a lot," James went on, dreary master of the obvious. King of the obvious. Emperor of the obvious.

Magnus did not take such suffering lightly, but even mortals did not die of broken hearts. No matter how cruel Grace had been, he told himself, James would heal. Even though he was a Herondale.

Every student, Shadowhunter and mundane alike, knew the name Herondale. It was Jace__ last name. It was the name of heroes.

Magnus began to be truly alarmed. Will's voice would have shaken, betraying that his cruelty had been part of his playacting, but his son's laugh was that of someone genuinely delighted by the chaos erupting all around him

Why should we isolate people who are brave enough to try to become like us--who want to help people? Why should we treat them as if they're less than us, until they prove their worthiness or die? I won't do it.