One was tall for almost-thirteen, with an untidy shock of light brown hair. He had his face turned away, but James knew the boy had startling lavender eyes. He had heard girls at parties saying those eyes were wasted on a boy, especially a boy as strange as Christopher Lightwood.
James knew his cousin Christopher better than any other boy at the Academy. Aunt Cecily and Uncle Gabriel had spent a lot of time in Idris over the past few years, but before that both families had been together often: they had all gone down to Wales together for a few holidays, before Grandma and Grandpa died. Christopher was slightly odd and extremely vague, but he was always nice to James.
The boy standing beside Christopher was small and thin as a lath, his head barely coming up to Christopher's shoulder.
Thomas Lightwood was Christopher's cousin, not James's, but James called Thomas's mother Aunt Sophie because she was Mother's very best friend. James liked Aunt Sophie, who was so pretty and always kind. She and her family had been living in Idris for the past few years as well, with Aunt Cecily and Uncle Gabriel--Aunt Sophie's husband was Uncle Gabriel's brother. Aunt Sophie came to London on visits by herself, though. James had seen Mother and Aunt Sophie walk out of the practice rooms giggling together as if they were girls as little as his sister, Lucie. Aunt Sophie had once called Thomas her shy boy. That had made James think he and Thomas might have a lot in common.
At the big family gatherings when they were all together, James had sneaked a few glances at Thomas, and found him always hanging quiet and uneasy on the fringes of a bigger group, usually looking to one of the older boys. He'd wanted to go over to Thomas and strike up a conversation, but he had not been sure what to say.
Two shy people would probably be good friends, but there was the small problem of how to reach that point. James had no idea.
Now was James's chance, though. The Lightwood cousins were his best hope for friends at the Academy. All he had to do was go over and speak to them.
James pushed his way through the crowd, apologizing when other people elbowed him.
"Hullo, boys," said a voice behind James, and someone pushed past James as if he could not see him.
James saw Thomas and Christopher both turn, like flowers toward the sun. They smiled with identical radiant welcome, and James stared at the back of a shining blond head.
There was one other boy James's age at the Academy who he knew a little: Matthew Fairchild, whose parents James called Aunt Charlotte and Uncle Henry because Aunt Charlotte had practically raised Father, when she was the head of the London Institute and before she became Consul, the most important person a Shadowhunter could be.
Matthew had not come to London the few times Aunt Charlotte and his brother, Charles, had visited. Uncle Henry had been wounded in battle years before any of them were born, and he did not leave Idris often, but James was not sure why Matthew did not come visit. Perhaps he enjoyed himself too much in Idris.
One thing James was certain of was that Matthew Fairchild was not shy.
James had not seen Matthew in a couple of years, but he remembered him very clearly. At every family gathering where James hung on the edges of crowds or went off to read on the stairs, Matthew was the life and soul of the party. He would talk with grown-ups as if he were a grown-up. He would dance with old ladies. He would charm parents and grandparents, and stop babies from crying. Everybody loved Matthew.
James did not remember Matthew dressing like a maniac before today. Matthew was wearing knee breeches when everyone else was wearing the trousers of the sane, and a mulberry-colored velvet jacket. Even his shining golden hair was brushed in a way that struck James as more complicated than the way other boys brushed their hair.
"Isn't this a bore?" Matthew asked Christopher and Thomas, the two boys James wanted for friends. "Everybody here looks like a dolt. I am already in frightful agony, contemplating my wasted youth. Don't speak to me, or I shall break down and sob uncontrollably."
"There, there," said Christopher, patting Matthew's shoulder. "What are you upset about again?"
"Your face, Lightwood," said Matthew, and elbowed him.
Christopher and Thomas both laughed, drawing in close to him. They were all so obviously already friends, and Matthew was so clearly the leader. James's plan for friends was in ruins.
"Er," said James, the sound like a tragic social hiccup. "Hello."
Christopher gazed at him with amiable blankness, and James's heart, which had already been around his knees, sank to his socks.
Then Thomas said, "Hello!" and smiled.
James smiled back, grateful for an instant, and then Matthew Fairchild turned around to see who Thomas was addressing. He was taller than James, his fair hair outlined by the sun as he looked down on him. Matthew gave the impression that he was looking down from a much greater height than he actually was.
"Jamie Herondale, right?" Matthew drawled.
James bristled. "I prefer James."
"I'd prefer to be in a school devoted to art, beauty, and culture rather than in a ghastly stone shack in the middle of nowhere filled with louts who aspire to nothing more than whacking demons with great big swords," said Matthew. "Yet here we are."
"And I would prefer to have intelligent students," said a voice behind them. "Yet here I am teaching at a school for the Nephilim."
They turned and then started, as one. The man behind them had snowy-white hair, which he looked too young to have, and horns poking out among the white locks. The most notable thing about him, however, the thing James noted right away, was that he had green skin the color of grapes.
James knew this must be a warlock. In fact, he knew who it must be: the former High Warlock of London, Ragnor Fell, who lived part-time in the countryside outside Alicante, and who had agreed this year that he would teach in the Academy as a diversion from his magical studies.
James knew warlocks were good people, the allies of the Shadowhunters. Father often talked about his friend Magnus Bane, who had been kind to him when he was young.
Father had never mentioned whether Magnus Bane was green. James had never thought to inquire. Now he was rather urgently wondering.
"Which one of you is Christopher Lightwood?" Ragnor Fell asked in a stern voice. His gaze swept them all, and landed on the most guilty-looking person in the group. "Is it you?"
"Thank the Angel, no," Thomas exclaimed, and went red under his summer tan. "No offense, Christopher."
"Oh, none taken," said Christopher airily. He blinked up at Ragnor, as if the tall, scary green man had entirely escaped his notice up until this moment. "Hello, sir."
"Are you Christopher Lightwood?" Ragnor asked, somewhat menacingly.
Christopher's wandering attention became focused on a tree. "Hm? I think so."
Ragnor glared down at Christopher's flyaway brown hair. James was beginning to be afraid he would erupt like a green volcano.
"Are you not certain, Mr. Lightwood? Did you perhaps have an unfortunate encounter when you were an infant?"
"Hm?" said Christopher.
Ragnor's voice rose. "Was the encounter between your infant head and a floor?"
That was when Matthew Fairchild said, "Sir," and smiled.
James had forgotten about The Smile, even though it was often broken out to great effect at family parties. The Smile won Matthew extra time before bed, extra Christmas pudding, extra anything he wanted. Adults were helpless to resist The Smile.
Matthew gave his all to this particular smile. Butter melted. Birds sang. People slipped about dazed amid the butter and birdsong.
"Sir, you will have to forgive Christopher. He's a trifle absentminded, but he is definitely Christopher. It would be very difficult to mistake Christopher for anyone else. I vouch for him, and he can't deny it."
The Smile worked on Ragnor, as it worked on all adults. He unbent a tiny bit. "Are you Matthew Fairchild?"
Matthew's smile became more playful. "I could deny it if I liked. I could deny anything if I liked.
But my name certainly is Matthew. It has been Matthew for years."
"What?" Ragnor Fell looked as if he had fallen into a pit of lunatics and could not get out.
James cleared his throat. "He's quoting Oscar Wilde, sir."
Matthew glanced over at him, his dark eyes suddenly wide. "Are you a devotee of Oscar Wilde?"
"He's a good writer," James said coldly. "There are a lot of good writers. I read rather a lot," he added, making it clear that he was certain Matthew did not.
"Gentlemen," Ragnor Fell put in, his voice a dagger. "If you could tear yourselves away from your fascinating literary conversation for a moment and listen to one of the instructors in the establishment where you have supposedly come to learn? I have a letter here about Christopher Lightwood and the unfortunate incident that caused the Clave such concern."
"Yes, that was a very unfortunate accident," said Matthew, nodding earnestly as if he was sure of Ragnor's sympathy.
"And that was not the word I used, Mr. Fairchild, as I am sure you are aware. The letter says that you have volunteered to take full responsibility for Mr. Lightwood, and that you solemnly promise to keep any and all potential explosives out of his reach for the duration of his time at the Academy."
James looked from the warlock to Matthew to Christopher, who was regarding a tree with dreamy benevolence. In desperation, he looked to Thomas.
Explosives? he mouthed.
"Don't ask," said Thomas. "Please."
Thomas was older than James and Christopher, but much smaller. Aunt Sophie had kept him at home an extra year because he was sickly. He did not look sickly now, but he was still rather undersized. His tan, combined with his brown hair and brown eyes and his short stature, made him look like a small, worried horse chestnut. James found himself wanting to pat Thomas on the head.
Matthew patted Thomas on the head.
"Mr. Fell," he said. "Thomas. Christopher. Jamie."
"James," James corrected.
"Do not worry," Matthew said with immense confidence. "I mean, certainly, worry that we are trapped in an arid warrior culture with no appreciation for the truly important things in life. But do not worry about things exploding, because I will not permit anything to explode."
"That was all you needed to say," Ragnor Fell told him. "And you could have said it in far fewer words."
He walked off, in a swirl of green skin and bad temper.
"He was green!" Thomas whispered.
"Really," said Matthew, very dry.
"Oh, really?" asked Christopher brightly. "I didn't notice."
Thomas gazed sadly at Christopher. Matthew ignored him superbly. "I rather liked the unique hue of our teacher. It reminded me of the green carnations that Oscar Wilde's followers wear to imitate him. He had one of the actors in, um, a play of his wear a green carnation onstage."
"It was Lady Windermere's Fan," James said.
Matthew was clearly showing off, trying to sound superior and special, and James had no time for it.
Matthew turned The Smile on him. James was unsurprised to find he was immune to its deadly effects.
"Yes," he said. "Of course. Jamie, I can see that as a fellow admirer of Oscar Wilde--"
"Uh," said a voice to James's left. "You new boys have barely been here five minutes, and all you can find to talk about is some mundane who got sent to prison for indecency?"
"So you know Oscar Wilde too, Alastair?" Matthew asked.
James looked up at the taller, older boy. He had light hair but dark brows, strongly marked, like very judgmental black brushstrokes.
So this was Alastair Carstairs, the brother of Lucie's best friend, whom Father hoped James would make friends with. James had pictured someone more friendly, more like Cordelia herself.
Perhaps Alastair would be more friendly if he did not associate James with snotty Matthew.
"I know of many mundane criminals," Alastair Carstairs said in chilly tones. "I read the mundane newspapers to find hints of demonic activity. I certainly don't bother reading plays."
The two boys he was with nodded in good Shadowhunter solidarity.
Matthew laughed in their faces. "Naturally. What use do sad, unimaginative little people have for plays?" he asked. "Or paintings, or dancing, or anything that makes life interesting. I am so glad to be at this dank little school where they will try to squeeze down my mind until it is almost as narrow as yours."
He patted Alastair Carstairs on the arm. James was amazed that he was not immediately struck in the face.
Thomas was staring at Alastair with as much panic as James felt.
"Run along now," Matthew suggested. "Do. Jamie and I were talking."
Alastair laughed, his laugh sounding angrier than a sharp word would have. "I was only trying to give you young ones a little guidance about the way we do things in the Academy. If you're too stupid to take heed, that is not my fault. At least you have a tongue in your head, unlike this one."
He turned and glared daggers at James. James was so surprised and dismayed at this turn of events--he hadn't done anything!--that he simply stood and stared with his mouth open.
"Yes, you, the one with the peculiar eyes," Alastair snapped. "What are you gawping at?"
"I--" said James. "I--"
He did have peculiar eyes, he knew. He did not truly need eyeglasses, except for reading, but he wore them all the time in order to conceal his eyes. He could feel himself blushing, and Alastair's voice became as sharp as his laugh.
"What's your name?"
"H-Herondale," James stammered out.
"By the Angel, his eyes are awful," said the boy to Alastair's right.
Alastair laughed again, this time with more satisfaction. "Yellow. Just like a goat's."
"I don't--"
"Don't strain yourself, Goatface Herondale," Alastair said. "Don't try to speak. You and your friends could perhaps cease obsessing about mundanes and try to think about little matters like saving lives and upholding the Law while you're here, all right?"
He strolled on, his friends laughing with him. James heard the word spreading through the tightly knit crowd with laughter following it, like the ripples from a stone thrown into a pond.
Goatface. Goatface. Goatface.
Matthew laughed. "Well. What an--"
"Thanks so much for dragging me into that," James snapped. He turned on his heel and walked away from the two friends he had hoped for at the Academy, and heard his new name whispered as he went.
*
James did what he had promised himself he absolutely would not do. He dragged his heavy bag through the courtyard, through the hall, and up several sets of stairs until he found a staircase that seemed private. Then he sat down and opened a book. He told himself that he was only going to read a few pages before he went down again. The Count of Monte Cristo was just descending on his enemies in a balloon.
James emerged hours later, to the sinking realization that the sky had gone dark gray and the sounds from the courtyard had faded away. His mother and Lucie were still in London, far away, and now he was sure his father was gone too.
He was trapped in this Academy full of strangers. He did not even know where he was supposed to sleep tonight.
He wandered around trying to find the bedrooms. He did not discover any, but he did find himself enjoying exploring such a big new place on his own. The Academy was a splendid building, the stone walls shining as if they had been polished. The chandeliers seemed made of jewels, and as James wandered in search of the dining hall, he found many beautiful tapestries depicting Shadowhunters through the ages. He stood looking at an intricate, colorful weaving of Jonathan Shadowhunter fighting during the Crusades, until it occurred to him that dinner must be soon and he did not want to draw any further attention to himself.
The sound of hundreds of strange voices alerted James to where the dining room must be. He fought the impulse to run away, steeled himself, and walked through the doors instead. To his relief, people were still asse
mbling, the older students milling around and chatting to each other with the ease of long familiarity. The new students were hovering, much like James himself.
All except Matthew Fairchild, who was surveying the shining mahogany tables with disdain.
"We have to select a very small table," he told Thomas and Christopher, his satellites. "I am here under protest. I will not break bread with the kind of violent ruffians and raving imbeciles who would attend the Academy willingly."
"You know," James said loudly, "Alastair Carstairs was right."
"That seems very unlikely to me," Matthew responded, then turned. "Oh, it's you. Why are you still carrying your bag?"
"I don't have to answer to you," said James, which he was aware was a bizarre thing to say. Thomas blinked at him in distress, as if he had trusted James not to say bizarre things.
"All right," Matthew said agreeably. "Alastair Carstairs was right about what?"
"People are attending the Academy because they hope to become better Shadowhunters, and save lives. That is a noble and worthy goal. You do not have to sneer at everybody you meet."
"But how else am I going to amuse myself in this place?" Matthew protested. "You can sit with us, if you want."
There was an amused glint in his brown eyes. James was certain from the way Matthew was looking at him that he was being made fun of, though he could not quite work out how.
"No thanks," James said shortly.
He looked around at the tables, and saw that the first-year Shadowhunters were now settled around tables in careful, friendly patterns. There were other boys and even a few girls, though, who James could tell were mundanes. It was not so much clothing or build as the way they held themselves: as if they were afraid they might be attacked. Shadowhunters, in contrast, were always ready to attack.
There was one boy in shabby clothes sitting by himself. James crossed the dining room to sit at his table.
"Can I sit here?" he asked, desperate enough to be blunt.
"Yes!" said the other boy. "Oh yes, please. The name's Smith. Michael Smith. Mike."
James reached across the table and shook Mike Smith's hand. "James Herondale."
Mike's eyes widened, clearly recognizing it as a Shadowhunter name. "My mother grew up in the mundane world," James told him quickly. "In America. New York City."
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