“You might not remember, but I have kind of a complicated family history,” Jace said. “Anyway, I only found out I was a Herondale a little while ago. It took me a while to adjust to the idea. They’re kind of a legendary family.”
Back to the food for a few minutes. When his plates and bowls were empty, Jace sat back and regarded Simon for a moment. Simon considered asking if Jace was kind of a big deal, but decided he wouldn’t get the joke.
Jace went on. “Anyway, the whole thing, it started to remind me—well, of you. It’s like there are these important things in my history but I don’t know all of them, and I’m trying to pull together an identity that has all these holes in it. The Herondales—some of them were good people, and some of them were monsters.”
“None of that needs to affect you,” Simon said. “The choices you make are what matter, not your bloodline. But I imagine you have a lot of people in your life to tell you that. Clary. Alec.” He looked at Jace sideways. “Isabelle.”
Jace’s eyebrows went up. “You want to talk about Isabelle? Or Alec?”
“Alec hates me and I do not know why,” Simon said. “Isabelle hates me and I do know why, which is almost worse. So no, I do not want to talk about the Lightwoods.”
“It’s true you have a Lightwood problem,” Jace said, and his golden eyes glinted. “It started with Alec. As you astutely observed, you two have a history. But I shouldn’t get in the middle of that.”
“Please tell me what’s going on with Alec,” Simon said. “You are really freaking me out.”
“No,” Jace said. “There are so many deep feelings involved. There’s so much hurt. It wouldn’t be right. I didn’t come here to stir up trouble. I came here to show potential Shadowhunters how to drop from heights without breaking their necks.”
Simon stared at Jace. Jace stared back with wide, innocent golden eyes.
Simon decided that the next time he saw Alec, he would have to ask Alec himself about the secrets that lay between them. This was obviously something he and Alec had to work out on their own.
“But I will say this about your Lightwood problem,” Jace said, very casually. “Isabelle and Alec both have difficulty showing when they feel pain. But I can see it in both of them, especially when they try to hide it. She’s in pain.”
“And I made it worse,” Simon said, shaking his head. “This is my fault. Me, with my memory wiped out by some kind of demon king. Me, with no concept of what happened in my life. Me, the guy with no special abilities who’s probably going to get killed in school. I’m a monster.”
“No,” Jace said evenly. “No one blames you for not being able to remember. You offered yourself as a sacrifice. You were brave. You saved Magnus. And you saved Isabelle. You saved me. You need to bend your knees more.”
“What?”
Jace was standing up now.
“When you first step off. Bend the knees right away. Otherwise you did pretty well.”
“But what about Isabelle?” Simon asked. “What do I do?”
“I have no idea,” Jace said.
“So you just came here to torture me and talk about yourself?” Simon demanded.
“Oh, Simon, Simon, Simon,” said Jace. “You may not remember, but that’s kind of our thing.”
With that, he walked away, clearly aware of the admiring glances that followed his every step.
*
After lunch they had a history lecture. Usually the two groups of students were divided for classes—but in certain cases, everyone was assembled together in the main hall. There was no grandeur to the hall—just some crooked benches, and not enough of them. The chairs from the cafeteria were dragged in to supplement, but there still weren’t enough seats. So some students (the elites) had chairs and benches, and the dregs sat on the floor at the front, like the little kids in middle school. After this morning, though, a few hours of sitting on a bare, cold, stone floor was luxury.
Catarina took her place at the wobbly lectern.
“We have a special guest lecturer today,” she said. “She is visiting us to talk about the role Shadowhunters play in writing history. As you are likely aware, though I don’t want to make any overly optimistic assumptions, Shadowhunters have been involved in many prominent moments in mundane history. Because Shadowhunters must also guard mundanes from knowing about our world, you must also sometimes take control of the writing of that history. By this I mean you have to cover things up. You need to provide a plausible explanation for what’s happened—one that does not involve demons.”
“Like Men in Black,” Simon whispered to George.
“So please give your full attention to our esteemed guest,” Catarina went on. She stepped aside, and a tall young woman took her place.
“I am Tessa Gray,” she said in a low, clear voice. “And I believe in the importance of stories.”
The woman at the front of the room looked like she might be a sophomore in college. She was elegantly dressed in a short black skirt, cashmere sweater, and paisley scarf. Simon had seen this woman once before—at Jocelyn and Luke’s wedding. Clary had said she had played a very important role in Clary’s life when she was a child. She had also informed Simon that Tessa was about a hundred and fifty years old, though she certainly didn’t look it.
“For you to understand this story, you have to understand who and what I am. Like Catarina, I am a warlock—however, my mother was not human but a Shadowhunter.”
A murmur from around the room, which Tessa glossed over.
“I am not able to bear Marks, but I once lived among Shadowhunters—I was a Shadowhunter’s wife, and my children were Shadowhunters. I was witness to much that no other Downworlder ever saw, and now I am almost the only person alive who recalls the truth behind the stories mundanes made up to explain away the times their world brushed ours. I am many things. One is a living record of Shadowhunter history. Here is one story you may have heard of—Jack the Ripper. What can you tell me about that name?”