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One was tall for almost-thirteen, with an untidy shock of light brown hair. He had his face turned away, but James knew the boy had startling lavender eyes. He had heard girls at parties saying those eyes were wasted on a boy, especially a boy as strange as Christopher Lightwood.
James knew his cousin Christopher better than any other boy at the Academy. Aunt Cecily and Uncle Gabriel had spent a lot of time in Idris over the past few years, but before that both families had been together often: they had all gone down to Wales together for a few holidays, before Grandma and Grandpa died. Christopher was slightly odd and extremely vague, but he was always nice to James.
The boy standing beside Christopher was small and thin as a lath, his head barely coming up to Christopher's shoulder.
Thomas Lightwood was Christopher's cousin, not James's, but James called Thomas's mother Aunt Sophie because she was Mother's very best friend. James liked Aunt Sophie, who was so pretty and always kind. She and her family had been living in Idris for the past few years as well, with Aunt Cecily and Uncle Gabriel--Aunt Sophie's husband was Uncle Gabriel's brother. Aunt Sophie came to London on visits by herself, though. James had seen Mother and Aunt Sophie walk out of the practice rooms giggling together as if they were girls as little as his sister, Lucie. Aunt Sophie had once called Thomas her shy boy. That had made James think he and Thomas might have a lot in common.
At the big family gatherings when they were all together, James had sneaked a few glances at Thomas, and found him always hanging quiet and uneasy on the fringes of a bigger group, usually looking to one of the older boys. He'd wanted to go over to Thomas and strike up a conversation, but he had not been sure what to say.
Two shy people would probably be good friends, but there was the small problem of how to reach that point. James had no idea.
Now was James's chance, though. The Lightwood cousins were his best hope for friends at the Academy. All he had to do was go over and speak to them.
James pushed his way through the crowd, apologizing when other people elbowed him.
"Hullo, boys," said a voice behind James, and someone pushed past James as if he could not see him.
James saw Thomas and Christopher both turn, like flowers toward the sun. They smiled with identical radiant welcome, and James stared at the back of a shining blond head.
There was one other boy James's age at the Academy who he knew a little: Matthew Fairchild, whose parents James called Aunt Charlotte and Uncle Henry because Aunt Charlotte had practically raised Father, when she was the head of the London Institute and before she became Consul, the most important person a Shadowhunter could be.
Matthew had not come to London the few times Aunt Charlotte and his brother, Charles, had visited. Uncle Henry had been wounded in battle years before any of them were born, and he did not leave Idris often, but James was not sure why Matthew did not come visit. Perhaps he enjoyed himself too much in Idris.
One thing James was certain of was that Matthew Fairchild was not shy.
James had not seen Matthew in a couple of years, but he remembered him very clearly. At every family gathering where James hung on the edges of crowds or went off to read on the stairs, Matthew was the life and soul of the party. He would talk with grown-ups as if he were a grown-up. He would dance with old ladies. He would charm parents and grandparents, and stop babies from crying. Everybody loved Matthew.
James did not remember Matthew dressing like a maniac before today. Matthew was wearing knee breeches when everyone else was wearing the trousers of the sane, and a mulberry-colored velvet jacket. Even his shining golden hair was brushed in a way that struck James as more complicated than the way other boys brushed their hair.
"Isn't this a bore?" Matthew asked Christopher and Thomas, the two boys James wanted for friends. "Everybody here looks like a dolt. I am already in frightful agony, contemplating my wasted youth. Don't speak to me, or I shall break down and sob uncontrollably."
"There, there," said Christopher, patting Matthew's shoulder. "What are you upset about again?"
"Your face, Lightwood," said Matthew, and elbowed him.
Christopher and Thomas both laughed, drawing in close to him. They were all so obviously already friends, and Matthew was so clearly the leader. James's plan for friends was in ruins.
"Er," said James, the sound like a tragic social hiccup. "Hello."
Christopher gazed at him with amiable blankness, and James's heart, which had already been around his knees, sank to his socks.
Then Thomas said, "Hello!" and smiled.
James smiled back, grateful for an instant, and then Matthew Fairchild turned around to see who Thomas was addressing. He was taller than James, his fair hair outlined by the sun as he looked down on him. Matthew gave the impression that he was looking down from a much greater height than he actually was.
"Jamie Herondale, right?" Matthew drawled.
James bristled. "I prefer James."
"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.
