“He touched the rough crucifix that lay against his chest and whispered to the moving air, "Lord, that she might be safe, she and my children." Then turned his cheek to her reaching hand and touched her throught the veils of time.”

“See how she leans her cheek upon her hand.
O, that I were a glove upon that hand
That I might touch that cheek!”

“I reach out to touch his cheek and he catches my hand and presses it against his lips.”

“He opened his arms and she moved into the space they made in the world, and laying her head against his chest she permitted herself the almost unimaginable luxury of grief.”

“For an instant she felt his touch on her cheek then he stepped back. There that was my ration for all eternity. People have died for less I dare say.”

““I thought I would be safe here.”
“You are.” For the first time, he touched her, touched her hand. “Safe from everything but paper and ink. Please. Put those down.”
“Paper and ink.” She clutched the books to her ample chest. “They’re not nothing, Alec. They’re pretty much everything to me: the embodiment of ideas, of thought—of free and open thought. Of inquiry and supposition. All of it.””

“Tessa touched his wrist lightly with her hand. "Be brave," she said. "It's not a duck, is it?”

“She curled up and pressed her cheek against his chest. Her ear was right above his heart. She was listening to his thoughts. "I need to know this," Aomame said. "That we're in the same world, seeing the same things.”

“Lord that she might be safe. She and my children.”

“Clary," he whispered. There was a thump, and she realized he had fallen to his kees by the side of her bed. She didn't move, but her body tightened. His voice was a whisper. "Clary, it's me. It's me.”