It occurs to me," said Hodge, "that the dilemmas of power are
always the same." Clary glanced at him sideways. "What do you mean?"
She sat on the window seat in the library, Hodge in his chair with Hugo on
the armrest. The remains of breakfast—sticky jam, toast crumbs, and
smears of butter—clung to a stack of plates on the low table that no one
had seemed inclined to clear away. After breakfast they had scattered to
prepare themselves, and Clary had been the first one back. This was hardly
surprising, considering that all she had to do was pull on jeans and a shirt
and run a brush through her hair, while everyone else had to arm
themselves heavily. Having lost Jace's dagger in the hotel, the only
remotely supernatural object she had on her was the witchlight stone in her
pocket.
"I was thinking of your Simon," Hodge said, "and of Alec and Jace,
among others."
She glanced out the window. It was raining, thick fat drops spattering
against the panes. The sky was an impenetrable gray. "What do they have
to do with each other?"
"Where there is feeling that is not requited," said Hodge, "there is an
imbalance of power. It is an imbalance that is easy to exploit, but it is not a
wise course. Where there is love, there is often also hate. They can exist
side by side."
"Simon doesn't hate me."
"He might grow to, over time, if he felt you were using him.

Autore: Cassandra Clare