You cut me,†he said. His voice was pleasant. British. Very ordinary. He looked at his hand with critical interest. “It might be fatal.â€
Tessa looked at him with wide eyes. “Are you the Magister?â€
He tilted his hand to the side. Blood ran down it, spattering the floor. “Dear me, massive blood loss. Death could be imminent.â€
“Are you the Magister?â€
“Magister?†He looked mildly surprised by her vehemence. “That means ‘master’ in Latin, doesn’t it?â€
“I…†Tessa was feeling increasingly as if she were trapped in a strange dream. “I suppose it does.â€
“I’ve mastered many things in life. Navigating the streets of London, dancing the quadrille, the Japanese art of flower arranging, lying at charades, concealing a highly intoxicated state, delighting young women with my charms…â€
Tessa stared.
“Alas,†he went on, “no one has ever actually referred to me as ‘the master’, or ‘the magister’, either. More’s the pity…
— Cassandra Clare
tessawill