“He’s as smart as any Academy graduate,” Diana said. “He knows as much.”
She leaned forward, elbows on her glass desk. Behind her the ocean stretched to the horizon. It was creeping toward late afternoon, and the water was a dark silver-blue. Julian thought about what would happen if he brought his hand down hard on the desk; did he have the strength to shatter the glass?
“It’s not about what he knows,” Julian said, and stopped himself. He was getting dangerously close to exactly what they never talked about: the way in which Ty was different.
Julian often thought the Clave was a black shadow over his life. They had stolen his older brother and sister from him just as much as the Fair Folk had. Down through the centuries, the exact way Shadowhunters could and should behave had been strictly regimented. Tell a mundane about the Shadow World and be disciplined, even exiled. Fall in love with a mundane, or your parabatai, and have your Marks ripped off—an agonizing process not everyone survived.
Julian’s art, his father’s interest in the classics: all had been regarded with deep suspicion. Shadowhunters weren’t meant to have outside interests. Shadowhunters weren’t artists. They were warriors, born and bred, like Spartans. And individuality was not something they valued.
Ty’s thoughts, his beautiful, curious mind, were not like everyone else’s. Julian had heard stories—whispers, really—of other Shadowhunter children who thought or felt differently. Who had trouble focusing. Who claimed letters rearranged themselves on the page when they tried to read them. Who fell prey to dark sadnesses that seemed to have no reason, or fits of energy they couldn’t control.
Whispers were all there were, though, because the Clave hated to admit that Nephilim like that existed. They were disappeared into the “dregs” portion of the Academy, trained to stay out of the way of other Shadowhunters. Sent to far corners of the globe like shameful secrets to be hidden. There were no words to describe Shadowhunters whose minds were shaped differently, no real words to describe differences at all.
Because if there were words, Julian thought, there would have to be acknowledgment. And there were things the Clave refused to acknowledge.
“They’ll make him feel like there’s something wrong with him,” Julian said. “There’s nothing wrong with him.”
“I know that.” Diana sounded sorrowful. Tired. Julian wondered where she had gone the day before, when they’d been at Malcolm’s. Who had helped her ward the convergence.
“They’ll try to force him into their mold of what a Shadowhunter ought to be like. He doesn’t know what they’ll do—”
“Because you haven’t told him,” Diana said. “If he has a rosy picture in his mind of what the Scholomance is like, it’s because you’ve never corrected him. Yeah, it’s harsh there. It’s brutal. Tell him so.”
“You want me to tell him he’s different,” Julian said coldly. “He’s not stupid, Diana. He knows that.”
“No,” said Diana, standing up. “I want you to tell him how the Clave feels about people who are different. Shadowhunters who are different. Because how can he make up his mind if he doesn’t have all the information?”
“He’s my little brother,” Julian snapped. The day outside was hazy; parts of the windows seemed mirrored, and he could see bits of himself—an edge of cheekbone, a set jaw, tangled hair. The look in his own eyes frightened him. “He’s three years from graduation—”
Diana’s brown eyes were fierce. “I know you’ve basically brought him up since he was ten, Julian. I know you feel like all of them are your children. And they are yours, but Livvy and Ty at least aren’t children anymore. You’re going to have to let go—”
“You’re telling me to be more forthcoming?” Julian demanded. “Really?”
Her jaw tightened. “You’re walking the edge of a razor blade, Julian, with everything you hide. Believe me. I’ve walked that razor blade half my life. You get used to it, so used to it sometimes you forget that you’re bleeding.”
“I don’t suppose you want to be any more specific about that?”
“You have your secrets. I have mine.”
“I can’t believe this.” Julian wanted to yell, punch a wall. “Keeping secrets is all you ever do. Remember when I asked you if you wanted to run the Institute? Remember when you said no and told me not to ask why?”
Diana sighed and ran one finger along the back of her chair. “Being angry at me won’t help anything, Jules.”