“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.