“Look at the stars,” said Tim. “Don’t you ever wonder what they’re for?” The Night was an open book of constellations.“They’re for the same as everything else, “said Sam. They’re just for themselves.” The stars silently agreed.”

“Well, look at it another way: why shouldn’t there be cats in a zoo?" I said."They’re animals, too, right?""Cats and dogs are your run-of-the-mill-type animals. Nobody’s going to pay money to see them," he said. "Just look around you-they’re everywhere. Same thing with people.”

“Yet, in the middle of all this grief, I realize there’s a part of me clinical enough to want to document it. People talk about artists like they’re these sensitive, delicate beings who don’t use the toilet, but I think the real ones are something else. They’re users. They’re mercenaries. They’re hunters. And they don’t let anything – other people, or themselves – get in the way of it.”

“Okay then, I suppose you get a pass on poker intimidation for the glasses, little brother. But everyone else is wearing them at the tables too, and they’re all just sitting there, looking all serious, like they’re birthing the Grand Theory of Everything.”

“Don’t worry," I said. "These men are good. They’re going to heal the world.”

“They’re not hideous,” said Tessa. Will blinked at her. “What?” “Gideon and Gabriel,” said Tessa. “They’re really quite good-looking, not hideous at all.” “I spoke,” said Will, in sepulchral tones, “of the pitch-black inner depths of their souls.” Tessa snorted. “And what color do you suppose the inner depths of your soul are, Will Herondale?” “Mauve,” said Will.”