“It occurs to me," said Hodge, "that the dilemmas of power arealways 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 onthe armrest. The remains of breakfast—sticky jam, toast crumbs, andsmears of butter—clung to a stack of plates on the low table that no onehad seemed inclined to clear away. After breakfast they had scattered toprepare themselves, and Clary had been the first one back. This was hardlysurprising, considering that all she had to do was pull on jeans and a shirtand run a brush through her hair, while everyone else had to armthemselves heavily. Having lost Jace's dagger in the hotel, the onlyremotely supernatural object she had on her was the witchlight stone in herpocket."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 spatteringagainst the panes. The sky was an impenetrable gray. "What do they haveto do with each other?""Where there is feeling that is not requited," said Hodge, "there is animbalance of power. It is an imbalance that is easy to exploit, but it is not awise course. Where there is love, there is often also hate. They can existside by side.""Simon doesn't hate me.""He might grow to, over time, if he felt you were using him.”