“I’d prefer to be in a school devoted to art, beauty, and culture rather than in a ghastly stone shack in the middle of nowhere filled with louts who aspire to nothing more than whacking demons with great big swords,” said Matthew. “Yet here we are.”
“And I would prefer to have intelligent students,” said a voice behind them. “Yet here I am teaching at a school for the Nephilim.”
They turned and then started, as one. The man behind them had snowy-white hair, which he looked too young to have, and horns poking out among the white locks. The most notable thing about him, however, the thing James noted right away, was that he had green skin the color of grapes.
James knew this must be a warlock. In fact, he knew who it must be: the former High Warlock of London, Ragnor Fell, who lived part-time in the countryside outside Alicante, and who had agreed this year that he would teach in the Academy as a diversion from his magical studies.
James knew warlocks were good people, the allies of the Shadowhunters. Father often talked about his friend Magnus Bane, who had been kind to him when he was young.
Father had never mentioned whether Magnus Bane was green. James had never thought to inquire. Now he was rather urgently wondering.
“Which one of you is Christopher Lightwood?” Ragnor Fell asked in a stern voice. His gaze swept them all, and landed on the most guilty-looking person in the group. “Is it you?”
“Thank the Angel, no,” Thomas exclaimed, and went red under his summer tan. “No offense, Christopher.”
“Oh, none taken,” said Christopher airily. He blinked up at Ragnor, as if the tall, scary green man had entirely escaped his notice up until this moment. “Hello, sir.”
“Are you Christopher Lightwood?” Ragnor asked, somewhat menacingly.
Christopher’s wandering attention became focused on a tree. “Hm? I think so.”
Ragnor glared down at Christopher’s flyaway brown hair. James was beginning to be afraid he would erupt like a green volcano.
“Are you not certain, Mr. Lightwood? Did you perhaps have an unfortunate encounter when you were an infant?”
“Hm?” said Christopher.
Ragnor’s voice rose. “Was the encounter between your infant head and a floor?”
That was when Matthew Fairchild said, “Sir,” and smiled.
James had forgotten about The Smile, even though it was often broken out to great effect at family parties. The Smile won Matthew extra time before bed, extra Christmas pudding, extra anything he wanted. Adults were helpless to resist The Smile.
Matthew gave his all to this particular smile. Butter melted. Birds sang. People slipped about dazed amid the butter and birdsong.
“Sir, you will have to forgive Christopher. He’s a trifle absentminded, but he is definitely Christopher. It would be very difficult to mistake Christopher for anyone else. I vouch for him, and he can’t deny it.”
The Smile worked on Ragnor, as it worked on all adults. He unbent a tiny bit. “Are you Matthew Fairchild?”
Matthew’s smile became more playful. “I could deny it if I liked. I could deny anything if I liked. But my name certainly is Matthew. It has been Matthew for years.”
“What?” Ragnor Fell looked as if he had fallen into a pit of lunatics and could not get out.
James cleared his throat. “He’s quoting Oscar Wilde, sir.”
Matthew glanced over at him, his dark eyes suddenly wide. “Are you a devotee of Oscar Wilde?”
“He’s a good writer,” James said coldly. “There are a lot of good writers. I read rather a lot,” he added, making it clear that he was certain Matthew did not.
“Gentlemen,” Ragnor Fell put in, his voice a dagger. “If you could tear yourselves away from your fascinating literary conversation for a moment and listen to one of the instructors in the establishment where you have supposedly come to learn? I have a letter here about Christopher Lightwood and the unfortunate incident that caused the Clave such concern.”
“Yes, that was a very unfortunate accident,” said Matthew, nodding earnestly as if he was sure of Ragnor’s sympathy.
“And that was not the word I used, Mr. Fairchild, as I am sure you are aware. The letter says that you have volunteered to take full responsibility for Mr. Lightwood, and that you solemnly promise to keep any and all potential explosives out of his reach for the duration of his time at the Academy.”
James looked from the warlock to Matthew to Christopher, who was regarding a tree with dreamy benevolence. In desperation, he looked to Thomas.
Explosives? he mouthed.
“Don’t ask,” said Thomas. “Please.”
Thomas was older than James and Christopher, but much smaller. Aunt Sophie had kept him at home an extra year because he was sickly. He did not look sickly now, but he was still rather undersized. His tan, combined with his brown hair and brown eyes and his short stature, made him look like a small, worried horse chestnut. James found himself wanting to pat Thomas on the head.
Matthew patted Thomas on the head.
“Mr. Fell,” he said. “Thomas. Christopher. Jamie.”
“James,” James corrected.
“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.”