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.”