Tessa leaned forward and caught at his hand, pressing it between her own. The touch was like white fire through his veins: he could not feel her skin, only the cloth of the gloves, and yet it did not matter. How you have kindled me, heap of ashes that I am, into fire. He had wondered once why love was always phrased in terms of burning: the conflagration in his own veins, now, gave the answer. You are good, Will, she said. There is no one better placed than I am to be able to say with perfect confidence how good you really are.
Cassandra Clare