What’s that poem again?” Will, who had been twirling his empty teacup around his fingers, stood up straight and declaimed:

“Each spake words of high disdain,
And insult to his heart’s best brother—”

“Oh, by the Angel, Will, do be quiet,” said Charlotte, standing up. “I must go and write a letter to Aloysius Starkweather that drips remorse and pleading. I don’t need you distracting me.” And, gathering up her skirts, she hurried from the room.

“No appreciation for the arts,” Will murmured, setting his teacup down.

Auteur: Cassandra Clare