With such a remarkable father, people tended to look for a son who would be perhaps a lesser star to Will Herondale’s blazing sun, but still someone shining. They were always subtly but unmistakably disappointed to find James, who was not very remarkable at all.
James remembered one incident that made the difference between him and his father starkly apparent. It was always the tiniest moments that came back to James in the middle of the night and mortified him the very most, like it was always the almost invisible cuts that kept stinging.
A mundane lady had wandered up to them at Hatchards bookshop in London. Hatchards was the nicest bookshop in the city, James thought, with its dark wood and glass front, which made the whole shop look solemn and special, and its secret nooks and hidey-holes inside where one could curl up with a book and be quite quiet. James’s family often went to Hatchards all together, but when James and his father went alone ladies quite often found a reason to wander over to them and strike up a conversation.
Father told the lady that he spent his days hunting evil and rare first editions. Father could always find something to say to people, could always make them laugh. It seemed a strange, wondrous power to James, as impossible to achieve as it would be for him to shape-shift like a werewolf.
James did not worry about the ladies approaching Father. Father never once looked at any woman the way he looked at Mother, with joy and thanksgiving, as if she was a living wish, granted past all hope.
James did not know many people, but he was good at being quiet and noticing. He knew that what lay between his parents was something rare and precious.
He worried only because the ladies approaching Father were strangers James would have to talk to.
The lady in the bookshop had leaned down and asked: “And what do you like to do, little man?”
“I like—books,” James had said. While standing in the bookshop, with a parcel of books under his arm. The lady had given him a pitying look. “I read—erm—rather a lot,” James went on, dreary master of the obvious. King of the obvious. Emperor of the obvious.
The lady was so unimpressed that she wandered off without another word.
James never knew what to say to people. He never knew how to make them laugh. He had lived thirteen years of his life, mainly at the Institute in London, with his parents and his little sister, Lucie, and a great many books. He had never had a friend who was a boy.
Now he was going to Shadowhunter Academy, to learn to be as great a warrior as his father, and the warrior bit was not half as worrying as the fact he was going to have to talk to people.
There were going to be a lot of people.
There was going to be a lot of talking.
James wondered why the wheels did not fall right off Uncle Gabriel’s carriage. He wondered why the world was so cruel.
“I know that you are nervous about going to school,” Father said at length. “Your mother and I were not sure about sending you.”
James bit his lip. “Did you think I would be a disaster?”
“What?” Father said. “Of course not! Your mother was simply worried about sending away the only other person in the house who has any sense.”
James smiled.
“We’ve been very happy, having our little family all together,” Father said. “I never thought I could be so happy. But perhaps we have kept you too isolated in London. It would be nice for you to find some friends your own age. Who knows, you might meet your future parabatai at the Academy.”
Father could say what he liked about it being his and Mother’s fault for keeping them isolated; James knew it was not true. Lucie had gone to France with Mother and met Cordelia Carstairs, and in two weeks they had become what Lucie described as bosom companions. They sent each other letters every week, reams and reams of paper crossed out and containing sketches. Lucie was as isolated as James was. James had gone on visits too, and never made a bosom companion. The only person who liked him was a girl, and nobody could know about Grace. Perhaps even Grace would not like him, if she knew any other people.
It was not his parents’ fault that he had no friends. It was some flaw within James himself.
“Perhaps,” Father went on casually, “you and Alastair Carstairs will take a liking to each other.”
“He’s older than me!” James protested. “He won’t have any time for a new boy.”
Father smiled a wry little smile. “Who knows? That is the wonderful thing about making changes and meeting strangers, Jamie. You never know when, and you never know who, but someday a stranger will burst through the door of your life and transform it utterly. The world will be turned upside down, and you will be happier for it.”