Cruelty is a mystery, and the waste of pain. But if we describe a word to compass these things, a world that is a long, brute game, then we bump against another mystery: the inrush of power and delight, the canary that sings on the skull.
Cassandra Clare
He took something out of his jacket and handed it to her. It was a long thin dagger in a leather sheath. The hilt of the dagger was set with a single red stone carved in the shape of a rose. She shook her head. "I wouldn't even know how to use that--" He pressed it into her hand, curling her fingers around it. "You'd learn. " He dropped his voice. "It's in your blood. " She drew her hand back slowly. "All right. " "I could give you a thigh sheath to put that in," Isabelle offered. "I've got tons. " "CERTAINLY NOT," said Simon.
