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"Your mother was a mundane?" said a girl, coming over and sitting at his table. "Esme Philpott," she added, shaking hands briskly. "I shan't keep it when I Ascend. I'm thinking of changing the Esme too."
James did not know what to say. He did not wish to insult a lady's name by agreeing with her or insult a lady by arguing with her. He was not prepared to be approached by a strange girl. Very few girls were sent to the Academy: of course girls could be just as fine warriors as boys, but not everybody thought that way, and many Shadowhunter families wanted to keep their girls close. Some people thought the Academy had far too many rules, and some far too few. Thomas's sisters, who were very proper, had not come to the Academy. Family legend reported that his cousin Anna Lightwood, who was the least proper person imaginable, had said if they sent her to the Academy, she would run away and become a mundane bullfighter.
"Mmm," said James, a silver-tongued devil with the ladies.
"Did your mother Ascend with no trouble?" Mike asked eagerly.
James bit his lip. He was accustomed to everyone knowing the history of his mother: the child of a stolen Shadowhunter and a demon. Any child of a Shadowhunter was a Shadowhunter. Mother belonged to the Shadowhunter world as much as any of the Nephilim. Only, her skin could not bear Marks, and there had never before been anyone like her in the world. James did not quite know how to explain to people who did not know already. He was afraid he would explain wrong, and the explanation would reflect badly on Mother.
"I know a lot of people who Ascended with no trouble," James said at last. "My aunt Sophie--Sophie Lightwood now--she was a mundane. Father says there never was anyone so brave, before or after Ascension."
"What a relief!" said Esme. "Tell me, I think I've heard of Sophie Lightwood--"
"What a fearful comedown," said one of the boys James had seen with Alastair Carstairs earlier. "Goatface Herondale is actually reduced to sitting with the dregs."
Alastair and his other friend laughed. They went to sit at a table with other, older Shadowhunters, and James was certain he heard the word "Goatface" whispered more than once. He felt he was boiling from the inside out with shame.
As for Matthew Fairchild, James looked over at him only once or twice. After James had left him standing in the middle of the dining hall, Matthew had tossed his stupid blond head and chosen a very large table to sit at. He clearly had not meant a word about being so select. He sat with Thomas and Christopher on either side of him like a prince holding court, calling out jokes and summoning people to his side, and soon his table was crowded. He charmed several of the Shadowhunter students away from their tables. Even some of the older students came over to listen to one of Matthew's apparently terribly amusing stories. Even Alastair Carstairs came over for a few minutes. Obviously he and Matthew were great friends now.
James caught Mike Smith looking over at Matthew's table longingly, his face that of an outsider barred from all the fun, doomed to always be at the less exciting table with the less interesting people.
James had wanted friends, but he had not wanted to be the kind of friend who people settled for, because they could not get any better. Except he was, as he had always secretly feared, tedious and poor company. He did not know why books had not taught him how to talk so other people wanted to listen.
*
James eventually approached the teachers for help finding his bedroom. He found Dean Ashdown and Ragnor Fell in deep conversation.
"I am so terribly sorry," said Dean Ashdown. "This is the first time we have ever had a warlock teacher--and we are delighted to have you! We should have thoroughly cleaned out the Academy and made sure there were no remnants of a less peaceful time."
"Thank you, Dean Ashdown," Ragnor said. "The removal of the mounted warlock's head from my bedroom will be sufficient."
"I am so terribly sorry!" said Dean Ashdown again. She lowered her voice. "Were you acquainted with the--er, deceased gentleman?"
Ragnor eyed her with disfavor. Though that might just be the way Mr. Fell looked. "If you were to happen upon the grotesquely severed head of one of the Nephilim, would you have to be acquainted with him to feel you might perhaps not fancy sleeping in the room where his desecrated corpse remained?"
James coughed in the middle of the dean's third frantic apology. "I do apologize," he said. "Could someone direct me to my room? I--got lost and missed all that."
"Oh, young Mr. Herondale." The dean looked quite happy to be interrupted. "Of course, let me show you the way. Your father entrusted me with a message for you that I can relay as we go."
She left Ragnor Fell scowling after them. James hoped he had not made another enemy.
"Your father said--what a charming language Welsh is, isn't it? So romantic!--Pob lwc, caraid. What does it mean?"
James blushed, because he was much too old for his father to be calling him by pet names. "It just means--it means good luck."
He could not help smiling as he trailed the dean down the halls. He was sure nobody else's father had charmed the dean into giving a student a secret message. He felt warm, and watched over.
Until Dean Ashdown opened the door of his new room, bid him a cheerful good-bye, and left him to his horrible fate.
It was a very nice room, airy, with walnut bedposts and white linen canopies. There was a carved wardrobe and even a bookcase.
There was also a distressing amount of Matthew Fairchild.
He was standing in front of a table that had about fifteen hairbrushes on it, several mysterious bottles, and a strange hoard of combs.
"Hullo, Jamie," he said. "Isn't it splendid that we are sharing a room? I am certain we will get along swimmingly."
"James," James said. "What are all those hairbrushes for?"
Matthew looked at him pityingly. "You don't think all this"--he indicated his head with a sweeping gesture--"happens on its own?"
"I only use one hairbrush."
"Yes," Matthew observed. "I can tell."
James dragged his trunk over to the foot of his bed, took out The Count of Monte Cristo, and made his way back to the door.
"Jamie?" Matthew asked.
"James!" James snapped.
Matthew laughed. "All right, all right. James, where are you going?"
"Somewhere else," said James, and slammed the door behind him.
He could not believe the bad luck that had randomly assigned him to share a room with Matthew. He found another staircase and read in it until he judged that it was late enough that Matthew would certainly be asleep, and he crept back, lit a candle, and resumed reading in bed.
James might have read a little too long into the night. When he woke up, Matthew was clearly long gone--on top of everything else, he was an early riser--and James was late for his first day of class.
"What else can you expect from Goatface Herondale," said a boy James had never seen before in his life, and several more people sniggered. James grimly took his seat next to Mike Smith.
*
The classes in which the elites were separated from the dregs were the worst. James had nobody to sit with then.
Or perhaps the first class of every day was the worst, because James always stayed up late into the night reading to forget his troubles, and was late every day. No matter what time he rose, Matthew was always gone. James assumed Matthew did this to mock him, since he could not imagine Matthew doing anything useful early in the morning.
Or perhaps the training courses were the worst, because Matthew was at his most annoying during the training courses.
"I must regretfully decline to participate," he told their teacher once. "Consider me on strike like the coal miners. Except far more stylish."
The next day, he said: "I abstain on the grounds that beauty is sacred, and there is nothing beautiful about these exercises."
The day after that, he merely said: "I object on aesthetic principles."
He kept saying ridiculous things, until a couple of weeks in, when he said: "I won't do
it, because Shadowhunters are idiots and I do not want to be at this idiot school. Why does an accident of birth mean you have to either get ripped away from your family, or you have to spend a short, horrible life brawling with demons?"
"Do you want to be expelled, Mr. Fairchild?" thundered one teacher.
"Do what you feel you must," said Matthew, folding his hands and smiling like a cherub.
Matthew did not get expelled. Nobody seemed quite sure what to do with him. His teachers began calling in sick out of despair.
He did only half the work and insulted everyone in the Academy on a daily basis, and he remained absurdly popular. Thomas and Christopher could not be pried away from him. He wandered the halls surrounded by adoring throngs who wanted to hear another amusing anecdote. His and James's room was always completely crowded.
James spent a good deal of time in the stairwells. He spent even more time being called Goatface Herondale.
"You know," Thomas said shyly once, when James had not managed to escape his own room fast enough, "you could pal around with us a little more."
"I could?" James asked, and tried not to sound too hopeful. "I'd . . . like to see more of you and Christopher."
"And Matthew," Thomas said.
James shook his head silently.
