Also, unlike all of the other rowboats, this one was shaped like a swan.
“I take it I’m supposed to get in,” he said, flinching, in case the sky decided to make any more terrifying noises. There was no reply from the sky, so Simon grabbed the neck of the swan with both hands and carefully stepped inside and sat in the middle. The water couldn’t be very deep. He would certainly be able to stand in it if the boat capsized. But still—freezing night, flying fountain, magic boat, and missing Clary. No reason to add “falling into cold water” to the mix.
As soon as he was in it, the little swan boat bobbed off, as if it knew it had somewhere to be. It drifted into the lake, avoiding the other loose boats. Simon huddled in, wrapping his arms around himself as he took his cold, gentle journey on the lake. The surface was utterly smooth, reflecting the moon and clouds. Simon hadn’t ever done this before. The whole “boating in Central Park” thing seemed like it was meant for tourists. But in his recollection, the lake was fairly small and wide. He was surprised when it narrowed very suddenly and made itself into a channel under a thick canopy of trees. Once under the trees, there was absolutely no light at all for several minutes. Then everything lit up at once—rows of superbright bulbs lined the sides of the channel, and in front of him was a low tunnel with the words TUNNEL OF LOVE written around the arch in lights. Bright pink hearts bookended the word.
“You’re joking,” Simon said for what felt like the millionth time.
The air was now thick with the smell of popcorn and sea air, and there were sounds of fairground rides. The swan boat bumped, as if moving onto a track that would take it into the tunnel ride. Simon glided in. The light behind him faded, and the tunnel had a soft, blue glow. Some nondescript, classical-lite music played, full of violins. The boat settled into the track. The walls were painted in old-fashioned scenes of lovers—people sitting on porch swings kissing, women lounging on a depiction of a crescent moon, sweethearts leaning over an ice cream soda to kiss. The water was lit from underneath and glowed green, reflecting off the ceiling. Simon looked over the side of the boat to get a sense of how deep it was, or if there was something under him, but it looked shallow, like any normal water ride.
“This is a weird place to meet,” said a voice.
Simon turned to see that he was now sharing his little swan with Jace. Jace was standing at the front of the boat, leaning against the swan’s head. Being Jace, his balance was perfect, so the boat didn’t rock to the side.
“Okay,” Simon said, “this is really taking a turn I didn’t expect.”
Jace shrugged and looked around at the tunnel.
“I suppose these things had a use at one time,” he said. “It was probably risqué to take this ride. You’d get a whole four minutes of unsupervised necking.”
The word “necking” was bad. Hearing Jace say it was a new kind of bad.
“So,” Jace said, “do you want to talk or should I?”
“Talk about what?”
Jace indicated the tunnel around them, as if this was very obvious.
“I’m not going to kiss you,” Simon said. “Ever.”
“I’ve never heard anyone say that before,” Jace mused. “It was a unique experience.”
“Sorry.” Simon didn’t feel even a little guilty. “If I was into guys, I don’t think you’d make the top ten.”
Jace released the swan’s head and came to sit down by Simon’s side. “I remember how we met. Do you?”
“You’re playing a game of what do you remember with me?” Simon asked. “That’s classy.”
“It’s not a game. I saw you. You didn’t see me. But I saw. I saw it all.”
“This is fun,” Simon said. “You and me and the tunnel of what the hell are you talking about.”
“You need to try to remember this,” Jace said. “This is important. You need to remember how we met.”
Whatever this was—a dream, some kind of altered state—it was veering in a very odd direction.
“How is it everything is about you?” Simon said.
“This isn’t about me at all. This is about what I saw. This is about what you know. You can get there. You need to get this one back. You need this memory.”
“You’re asking me to remember somewhere I didn’t see you?”
“Exactly. Why wouldn’t you have seen me?”
“Because you were glamoured,” Simon said.
“But someone did see me.”
That had to be Clary. Obvious choice. But . . .
Now there was something rocking in the back of Simon’s mind. He had been somewhere with Clary, and Jace was there . . . except Jace wasn’t there.
That was both in his memory and in the present. Jace was gone. The boat trundled on, turning a corner and plunging back into the dark. There was a short decline and a burst of fog, then the ooOoOOOoOOoo of a cartoon ghost and the mocked-up entryway of some kind of Gothic mansion. The ride had gone from lovers’ lane to haunted mansion. Simon rode along, through tableaux of the mansion’s rooms. In the library, ghosts dangled from wires and a skeleton popped out of a grandfather clock.
This fantasy, or whatever it was, seemed to be tapping into his memories of going to the Haunted Mansion at Disney World when he was a kid. And yet, as they moved from room to room, things looked more familiar—the cracking stone walls, the threadbare tapestries . . . the Haunted Mansion was turning into the Academy. There was a ghostly version of the cafeteria and the classrooms.
“Over here, Simon.”
It was Maia, waving from what looked like an elegant, wood-paneled office. There was a sign on the wall behind her, some kind of verse of poetry. Simon only caught a line of it: “as old and as true as the sky.” Maia wore an elegant suit, her hair clipped back, and gold bangle bracelets on her wrists. She looked sadly at Simon. “Are you really going to leave us?” she said. “Leave being a Downworlder? Become one of them?”
“Maia,” Simon said, a lump in his throat. He remembered only bits and pieces of his friendship with her—more than friendship, maybe? How brave she was, and how she’d been his friend when he’d desperately needed one.
“Please,” she said. “Don’t go.”
The boat moved swiftly past, to another room, a completely standard apartment living room, with some cheap furniture. It was Jordan’s apartment. Jordan stepped out of the bedroom doorway. There was a wound in his chest; his shirt was black with blood.
“Hey, roomie,” he said.