James bit his lip. He was accustomed to everyone knowing the history of his mother: the child of a stolen Shadowhunter and a demon. Any child of a Shadowhunter was a Shadowhunter. Mother belonged to the Shadowhunter world as much as any of the Nephilim. Only, her skin could not bear Marks, and there had never before been anyone like her in the world. James did not quite know how to explain to people who did not know already. He was afraid he would explain wrong, and the explanation would reflect badly on Mother.
“I know a lot of people who Ascended with no trouble,” James said at last. “My aunt Sophie—Sophie Lightwood now—she was a mundane. Father says there never was anyone so brave, before or after Ascension.”
“What a relief!” said Esme. “Tell me, I think I’ve heard of Sophie Lightwood—”
“What a fearful comedown,” said one of the boys James had seen with Alastair Carstairs earlier. “Goatface Herondale is actually reduced to sitting with the dregs.”
Alastair and his other friend laughed. They went to sit at a table with other, older Shadowhunters, and James was certain he heard the word “Goatface” whispered more than once. He felt he was boiling from the inside out with shame.
As for Matthew Fairchild, James looked over at him only once or twice. After James had left him standing in the middle of the dining hall, Matthew had tossed his stupid blond head and chosen a very large table to sit at. He clearly had not meant a word about being so select. He sat with Thomas and Christopher on either side of him like a prince holding court, calling out jokes and summoning people to his side, and soon his table was crowded. He charmed several of the Shadowhunter students away from their tables. Even some of the older students came over to listen to one of Matthew’s apparently terribly amusing stories. Even Alastair Carstairs came over for a few minutes. Obviously he and Matthew were great friends now.
James caught Mike Smith looking over at Matthew’s table longingly, his face that of an outsider barred from all the fun, doomed to always be at the less exciting table with the less interesting people.
James had wanted friends, but he had not wanted to be the kind of friend who people settled for, because they could not get any better. Except he was, as he had always secretly feared, tedious and poor company. He did not know why books had not taught him how to talk so other people wanted to listen.
*
James eventually approached the teachers for help finding his bedroom. He found Dean Ashdown and Ragnor Fell in deep conversation.
“I am so terribly sorry,” said Dean Ashdown. “This is the first time we have ever had a warlock teacher—and we are delighted to have you! We should have thoroughly cleaned out the Academy and made sure there were no remnants of a less peaceful time.”
“Thank you, Dean Ashdown,” Ragnor said. “The removal of the mounted warlock’s head from my bedroom will be sufficient.”
“I am so terribly sorry!” said Dean Ashdown again. She lowered her voice. “Were you acquainted with the—er, deceased gentleman?”
Ragnor eyed her with disfavor. Though that might just be the way Mr. Fell looked. “If you were to happen upon the grotesquely severed head of one of the Nephilim, would you have to be acquainted with him to feel you might perhaps not fancy sleeping in the room where his desecrated corpse remained?”
James coughed in the middle of the dean’s third frantic apology. “I do apologize,” he said. “Could someone direct me to my room? I—got lost and missed all that.”
“Oh, young Mr. Herondale.” The dean looked quite happy to be interrupted. “Of course, let me show you the way. Your father entrusted me with a message for you that I can relay as we go.”
She left Ragnor Fell scowling after them. James hoped he had not made another enemy.
“Your father said—what a charming language Welsh is, isn’t it? So romantic!—Pob lwc, caraid. What does it mean?”
James blushed, because he was much too old for his father to be calling him by pet names. “It just means—it means good luck.”
He could not help smiling as he trailed the dean down the halls. He was sure nobody else’s father had charmed the dean into giving a student a secret message. He felt warm, and watched over.
Until Dean Ashdown opened the door of his new room, bid him a cheerful good-bye, and left him to his horrible fate.
It was a very nice room, airy, with walnut bedposts and white linen canopies. There was a carved wardrobe and even a bookcase.
There was also a distressing amount of Matthew Fairchild.
He was standing in front of a table that had about fifteen hairbrushes on it, several mysterious bottles, and a strange hoard of combs.
“Hullo, Jamie,” he said. “Isn’t it splendid that we are sharing a room? I am certain we will get along swimmingly.”
“James,” James said. “What are all those hairbrushes for?”
Matthew looked at him pityingly. “You don’t think all this”—he indicated his head with a sweeping gesture—“happens on its own?”
“I only use one hairbrush.”
“Yes,” Matthew observed. “I can tell.”
James dragged his trunk over to the foot of his bed, took out The Count of Monte Cristo, and made his way back to the door.
“Jamie?” Matthew asked.
“James!” James snapped.
Matthew laughed. “All right, all right. James, where are you going?”