The two boys he was with nodded in good Shadowhunter solidarity.
Matthew laughed in their faces. “Naturally. What use do sad, unimaginative little people have for plays?” he asked. “Or paintings, or dancing, or anything that makes life interesting. I am so glad to be at this dank little school where they will try to squeeze down my mind until it is almost as narrow as yours.”
He patted Alastair Carstairs on the arm. James was amazed that he was not immediately struck in the face.
Thomas was staring at Alastair with as much panic as James felt.
“Run along now,” Matthew suggested. “Do. Jamie and I were talking.”
Alastair laughed, his laugh sounding angrier than a sharp word would have. “I was only trying to give you young ones a little guidance about the way we do things in the Academy. If you’re too stupid to take heed, that is not my fault. At least you have a tongue in your head, unlike this one.”
He turned and glared daggers at James. James was so surprised and dismayed at this turn of events—he hadn’t done anything!—that he simply stood and stared with his mouth open.
“Yes, you, the one with the peculiar eyes,” Alastair snapped. “What are you gawping at?”
“I—” said James. “I—”
He did have peculiar eyes, he knew. He did not truly need eyeglasses, except for reading, but he wore them all the time in order to conceal his eyes. He could feel himself blushing, and Alastair’s voice became as sharp as his laugh.
“What’s your name?”
“H-Herondale,” James stammered out.
“By the Angel, his eyes are awful,” said the boy to Alastair’s right.
Alastair laughed again, this time with more satisfaction. “Yellow. Just like a goat’s.”
“I don’t—”
“Don’t strain yourself, Goatface Herondale,” Alastair said. “Don’t try to speak. You and your friends could perhaps cease obsessing about mundanes and try to think about little matters like saving lives and upholding the Law while you’re here, all right?”
He strolled on, his friends laughing with him. James heard the word spreading through the tightly knit crowd with laughter following it, like the ripples from a stone thrown into a pond.
Goatface. Goatface. Goatface.
Matthew laughed. “Well. What an—”
“Thanks so much for dragging me into that,” James snapped. He turned on his heel and walked away from the two friends he had hoped for at the Academy, and heard his new name whispered as he went.
James did what he had promised himself he absolutely would not do. He dragged his heavy bag through the courtyard, through the hall, and up several sets of stairs until he found a staircase that seemed private. Then he sat down and opened a book. He told himself that he was only going to read a few pages before he went down again. The Count of Monte Cristo was just descending on his enemies in a balloon.
James emerged hours later, to the sinking realization that the sky had gone dark gray and the sounds from the courtyard had faded away. His mother and Lucie were still in London, far away, and now he was sure his father was gone too.
He was trapped in this Academy full of strangers. He did not even know where he was supposed to sleep tonight.
He wandered around trying to find the bedrooms. He did not discover any, but he did find himself enjoying exploring such a big new place on his own. The Academy was a splendid building, the stone walls shining as if they had been polished. The chandeliers seemed made of jewels, and as James wandered in search of the dining hall, he found many beautiful tapestries depicting Shadowhunters through the ages. He stood looking at an intricate, colorful weaving of Jonathan Shadowhunter fighting during the Crusades, until it occurred to him that dinner must be soon and he did not want to draw any further attention to himself.
The sound of hundreds of strange voices alerted James to where the dining room must be. He fought the impulse to run away, steeled himself, and walked through the doors instead. To his relief, people were still assembling, the older students milling around and chatting to each other with the ease of long familiarity. The new students were hovering, much like James himself.
All except Matthew Fairchild, who was surveying the shining mahogany tables with disdain.
“We have to select a very small table,” he told Thomas and Christopher, his satellites. “I am here under protest. I will not break bread with the kind of violent ruffians and raving imbeciles who would attend the Academy willingly.”
“You know,” James said loudly, “Alastair Carstairs was right.”
“That seems very unlikely to me,” Matthew responded, then turned. “Oh, it’s you. Why are you still carrying your bag?”
“I don’t have to answer to you,” said James, which he was aware was a bizarre thing to say. Thomas blinked at him in distress, as if he had trusted James not to say bizarre things.
“All right,” Matthew said agreeably. “Alastair Carstairs was right about what?”
“People are attending the Academy because they hope to become better Shadowhunters, and save lives. That is a noble and worthy goal. You do not have to sneer at everybody you meet.”
“But how else am I going to amuse myself in this place?” Matthew protested. “You can sit with us, if you want.”
There was an amused glint in his brown eyes. James was certain from the way Matthew was looking at him that he was being made fun of, though he could not quite work out how.
“No thanks,” James said shortly.
He looked around at the tables, and saw that the first-year Shadowhunters were now settled around tables in careful, friendly patterns. There were other boys and even a few girls, though, who James could tell were mundanes. It was not so much clothing or build as the way they held themselves: as if they were afraid they might be attacked. Shadowhunters, in contrast, were always ready to attack.
There was one boy in shabby clothes sitting by himself. James crossed the dining room to sit at his table.
“Can I sit here?” he asked, desperate enough to be blunt.
“Yes!” said the other boy. “Oh yes, please. The name’s Smith. Michael Smith. Mike.”
James reached across the table and shook Mike Smith’s hand. “James Herondale.”
Mike’s eyes widened, clearly recognizing it as a Shadowhunter name. “My mother grew up in the mundane world,” James told him quickly. “In America. New York City.”