“Concerned about my safety, are you? -William Herondale.”

“I have lost everything. Lost everything.Everything. - William Herondale”

“My name is Herondale," the boy said cheerfully. "William Herondale, but everyone calls me Will. Is this really your room? Not very nice, is it?" He wandered toward the window, pausing to examine the stacks of books on her bedside table, and then the bed itself. He waved a hand at the ropes. "Do you often sleep tied to the bed?”

“They all have always loved you, Will Herondale, for you cannot hide what is good about yourself, however hard you try.”

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

“Love potions? For Will Herondale? T’aint my way to turn down payment, but any man who looks like you has got no need of love potions, and that’s a fact.”

“Excellent. I've been told I have a lovely, melodic reading voice." He flipped the book open to the front page, where the title was printed in ornate script. Across from it was a long dedication, the ink faded now and barely legible, though Clary could make out the signature: With hope at last, William Herondale.”