“Fulton Dumas, do you know where Gabriel Witter is?" "No," he said, his expression changing suddenly from surprised embarrassment to sadness."Are you sure?" Lucas asked."Why would I know where he is?""I don't know, Fulton. Why do you need a thousand stuffed bears? Have you seen Gabriel Witter?”

“Are you sure you know where you're going?" Andrea frowned."Would you like me to pull over and ask that bamboo for directions?""I don't know, do you think it will answer?"We peered at the bamboo."I think it looks suspicious," Andrea said."Maybe there is a heffalump hiding in it."Andrea stared at me."You know, heffalump? From Pooh Bear?""Where do you even get this shit?”

“Would you?” said Gabriel to Will, hotly. “If it was your family?” His lip curled. “Never mind. It’s not as if you know the meaning of loyalty —” “Gabriel.” Gideon’s voice was a reprimand to his brother. “Do not speak to Will in that manner.”

“Father . . . ," Gabriel began. "Father is a worm."Will gave a short laugh. He was in gear as if he had just come from the practice room, and his hair curled damply against his temples. He was not looking at Tessa, but she had grown used to that. Will hardly ever looked at her unless he had to. "It's good to see you've come round to our view of things, Gabriel, but this is an unusual way of announcing it."Gideon shot Will a reproachful look before turning back to his brother. "What do you mean, Gabriel? What did Father do?"Gabriel shook his head. "He's a worm," he said again, tonelessly."I know. He has brought shame on the name of Lightwood, and lied to both of us. He shamed and destroyed our mother. But we need not be like him."Gabriel pulled away from his brother's grip, his teeth suddenly flashing in an angry scowl. "You're not listening to me," he said. "He's a worm. A worm. A bloody great serpentlike thing. Since Mortmain stopped sending the medicine, he's been getting worse. Changing. Those sores upon his arms, they started to cover him. His hands, his neck, h-his face . . ." Gabriel's green eyes sought Will. "It was the pox, wasn't it? You know all about it, don't you? Aren't you some sort of expert?" "Well, you needn't act as if I invented it," said Will. "Just because I believed it existed. There are accounts of it—old stories in the library—”

“I've never understood it. That is always the first thing someone asks: Where are you from. Not 'What do you like?' or 'What do you believe?' or even 'What is your mother like?' which all have more bearing on the person I am. And if I don't tell them where I'm from, they try to guess.... It drives them mad, as if to know me they need to know where I am from.”

“Where are you?" he asked. "I'm right here" she said. "I know, but it feels like one percent of you is somewhere else, where is that one percent?" he said. "I don't know....I think I'm always like that..." she answered. "I like that." "You do?" "Yes, because that way, I have to always look for the one percent to find it.”