But that had nothing to do with this.
This simply wasn’t right, the way Professor Mayhew ordered Helen around like a trained dog, or the way the others talked about the Fair Folk—as if, because some faeries had betrayed the Shadowhunters, all Faeries were guilty, now and forevermore.
Maybe that was it: the question of guilt handed down through bloodlines, the sins of the fathers visited on not just their sons but their friends, neighbors, and random acquaintances who happened to have similarly shaped ears. You couldn’t just indict an entire people—or in this case, Downworlder species—because you didn’t like how a few of them behaved. He’d spent enough time in Hebrew school to know how that kind of thing ended. Fortunately, before he could formulate an explanation for George that didn’t name-check Hitler, Professor Catarina Loss materialized before them.
Materialized, literally, in a rather theatrical puff of smoke. Warlock prerogative, Simon supposed, although showing off wasn’t Catarina’s style. Usually she blended in with the rest of the Academy faculty, making it easy to forget she was a warlock (at least, if you overlooked the blue skin). But he’d noticed that whenever another Downworlder was on campus, Catarina went out of her way to play up her warlockiness.
Not that Helen was a Downworlder, Simon reminded himself.
On the other hand, Simon wasn’t a Downworlder either—or hadn’t been for more than a year now—and Catarina still insisted on calling him Daylighter. According to her, once a Downworlder, always, in some tiny, subconscious, embedded-in-the-soul part, a Downworlder. She always sounded so certain of this, as if she knew something he didn’t. After talking to her, Simon often found himself tonguing his canine teeth, just to make sure he hadn’t sprouted fangs.
“Might I speak with you for a moment, Daylighter?” she said. “Privately?”
George, who’d been a bit nervous around Catarina ever since she had, very briefly, turned him into a sheep, had clearly been waiting for an excuse to run away. He took it.
Simon found himself surprisingly glad to be alone with Catarina; she, at least, was certain to be on his side. “Professor Loss, you won’t believe what just happened in class with Professor Mayhew—”
“How was your summer, Daylighter?” She gave him a thin smile. “Pleasant, I trust? Not too much sun?”
In all the time he’d known Catarina Loss, she’d never bothered with small talk. It seemed an odd time to start. “You did know Helen Blackthorn was here, right?” Simon said.
She nodded. “I know most everything that goes on around here. I thought you’d figured that out.”
“Then I’m guessing you know how Professor Mayhew was treating her.”
“Like something less than human, I would imagine?”
“Exactly!” Simon exclaimed. “Like something scraped off the bottom of his shoe.”
“In my experience, that’s how Professor Mayhew treats most people.”
Simon shook his head. “If you’d seen it . . . this was worse. Maybe I should tell Dean Penhallow?” The idea seized him only as it was coming out of his mouth, but he liked the sound of it. “She can, I don’t know . . .” It wasn’t like she could give him a detention. “Something.”
Catarina pursed her lips. “You must do what you think is right, Daylighter. But I can tell you that Dean Penhallow has little authority on the subject of Helen Blackthorn’s treatment here.”
“But she’s the dean. She should—oh.” Slowly but surely, the pieces slotted into place. Dean Penhallow was cousin to Aline Penhallow. Helen’s girlfriend. Aline’s mother, Jia, the Consul, was supposedly biased on the subject of Helen, and had recused herself from determining her treatment. If even the Consul couldn’t intercede on Helen’s behalf, then presumably the dean had even less hope of doing so. It seemed hideously unfair to Simon, that the people who cared most for Helen were the ones least involved in deciding her fate. “Why would Helen even come here?” Simon wondered. “I know Wrangel Island must suck, but could it be any worse than getting paraded around here, where everyone seems to hate her?”
“You can ask her yourself,” Catarina said. “That’s why I wanted to speak with you. Helen asked me to send you over to her cabin after your classes end today. She has something for you.”
“She does? What?”
“You’ll have to ask that for yourself too. You’ll find her lodgings at the edge of the western quad.”
“She’s staying on campus?” Simon said, surprised. He couldn’t understand why Helen would come here in the first place, but it was even harder to imagine her wanting to stay. “She must have friends in Alicante she could stay with.”
“I’m sure she does, even now,” Catarina said, something kind and sad in her voice, as if she were, very, very gently, letting down a child. “But, Simon, you’re presuming she had a choice.”
Simon hesitated at the door of the cabin, willing himself to knock. It was his least favorite thing, meeting someone he’d known in his before life, as he’d come to think of it. There was always the fear they would expect something of him he couldn’t deliver, or assume he knew something he’d forgotten. There was, too often, a gleam of hope in their eyes that was extinguished as soon as he opened his mouth.
At least, he told himself, he’d barely known Helen. She couldn’t be expecting much from him. Unless there was something he didn’t know.
And there must be something he didn’t know. . . . Why else would she have summoned him?
Only one way to find out, Simon thought, and knocked at the door.
Helen had changed into a bright polka-dotted sundress and looked much younger than she had in the classroom. Also much happier. Her smile widened substantially when she saw who was at the door.
“Simon! I’m so glad. Come on in, sit down, would you like something to eat or drink? Maybe a cup of coffee?”
Simon settled himself on the small living room’s only couch. It was uncomfortable and threadbare, embroidered with a faded flower pattern that looked like something his grandmother might have owned. He wondered who usually lived here, or whether the Academy simply maintained the ramshackle cabin for visiting faculty. Though he couldn’t imagine there were many visiting faculty members who wanted to live in a broken-down hut on the edge of the woods that looked like somewhere Hansel and Gretel’s witch might have lived before she discovered candy-based architecture.
“No, thanks, I’m fine—” Simon stopped as her last word registered with him. “Did you say coffee?”
Half a week into the new school year, Simon was already in serious caffeine withdrawal. Before he could tell her yes, please, a bucketful, Helen had already placed a steaming mug in his hands. “I thought so,” she said.