jordeclan bot

jordeclan quotes from the dreamer trilogy by maggie stiefvater

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He was still seated in his chair the way he always sat when he came over, one leg crossed over the other, his tie loosened, his jacket removed and laid over his knee as if he had just come in from work, because usually he had.

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Jordan had not expected to feel conflicted about this experience. Everything about this experience was supposed to be disposable. A means to an end. Not a real date, nothing to beg the real question of would I like this person.

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She smiled for her small, shifting crowd of watchers. Most only paused for a few seconds unless they were placing a commission.
Except for one.

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He didn’t know she was anything more than Jordan Hennessy, singular, and she liked it far more than she was allowed to.

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Declan turned his face into the wind so that the darkness would hide his smile from her. He said, “I expect great things from my portrait.”

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What are you doing here?
Getting into a car with a girl from the Fairy Market.

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Declan held his hand out to Jordan, the universal gesture for After you?

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She was always surprised by how well he knew this sideways world; he just didn’t seem to fit the part. She supposed that had been the point of his camouflage all along. Look like a man who takes his dates to cheesy tourist attractions. Be a man who steals paintings.

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Declan could’ve put his fist through the wall.
He didn’t know what had come over him.
It felt like going out with Jordan the night before should’ve let off steam and made it easier to ease into another decade of dull hibernation, but it had had the opposite effect.

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He was gone. Other viewers came to take his place, but Jordan found she kept looking at that business card. LYNCH.

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He felt like laughing. He didn’t know why. If it was because she was funny, or if it was because he was laughing at himself because he was an idiot, or if it was the way her wide grin was so infectious when she made a joke.

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He stayed long enough that Jordan glanced up. Conservative, expensive gray suit. Conservative, expensive black watch. Conservative, expensive silk black tie. All behaving so well in concert that they were utterly forgettable.

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Normally this was where she’d correct people. Tell them, no, it’s just Hennessy, really, because that’s what Hennessy would say, and they were all her.
But she didn’t correct him.

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She liked that asshole. That boring-ass drone of a prick—she liked him.

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She looked at him. He looked at her.

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He’d pulled so many strings for that Tyrian purple. Dangerous, complicated strings, a game of criminal telephone until he found someone overnight willing to trade him the pigment for the dreamt clock of Niall’s that he’d had hidden in his bedroom closet for ages. What an idiot.

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He laughed. It was a smooth and easy laugh. It did not imply that it was laughing at her. It implied it might be laughing at him, if that was what she wanted. Or it might just be laughing, if she preferred that.

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Declan Lynch had asked if she could keep an eye on Matthew while he ran some errands, presumably of dubious legality or safety, and it was nice to be able to do him a favor to show she appreciated him coming up to Boston.

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Declan laughed. “A senator I worked for taught me. He said it was a life skill.”
“Zombie apocalypse?”
“Fundraising opportunities.”
“Same difference.”

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Jordan asked, “If you were me, what would you do next?”
He whispered: “Steal it.”