More on this book
Community
Kindle Notes & Highlights
In books and movies, people were either whisked away to a magical land in the clothes they were standing up in, or they glossed over the packing part entirely. Simon now felt he had been robbed of critical information by the media.
He wore many rings, which glittered in the spring sunshine. Simon thought he must dazzle his enemies with his magical prowess, but also his glitter.
Simon began to notice certain small flaws with the Academy that he had not observed when he was awestruck and far away. One of the tall, skinny towers was leaning at an alarming angle. There were large bird nests in the arches, and cobwebs hanging as long and thick as curtains fluttered in a few of the windows. One of the panes in the stained-glass window was gone, leaving a black space where the angel’s eye should have been so that he looked like an angel turned to piracy. Simon did not feel good about any of these observations.
Moreover, in the interest of thoroughness I must tell you there is a problem with the food supplies.” Catarina raised an ivory eyebrow. “What’s the problem with the food supplies?” “There aren’t any food supplies.” “That is a problem.”
“There is a saying: It takes a Downworlder to clear up a Shadowhunter mess,” Catarina observed. “I . . . hadn’t heard that saying,” said Dean Penhallow. “How odd,” said Catarina, her voice fading as they walked away. “Downworlders say it often. Very often.”
Simon had several questions, like “who is that?” and “why is he on a stool?” but he didn’t want to be a bother.
Simon lined up for food, and peered into the greasy depths of the dark liquid. “Are there alligators in there?” “I won’t make you any promises,” said Catarina, inspecting her own bowl.
At dinner the next day, it was soup again. It had been soup for every meal for many days now. Simon did not remember a life before soup, and he despaired of ever achieving a life after soup.
“I don’t remember hell all that well,” Simon said. “But I think I recall it was nicer than this.”
“It’s always slime.” “Not so,” George said. “One time it was mold.” “I’m not sure we can really make the distinction between slime and mold, and I hate that I have to care about that.”
Breakfast, which had been a glue substitute under the banner of porridge, sat heavily in his stomach.
“You do not want to do that,” he said to Simon as he approached. Simon had already worked that out.
Father had borrowed Uncle Gabriel’s new carriage so he could take James from Alicante to the Academy, just the two of them. Father had not asked if he could borrow Uncle Gabriel’s carriage.
Mother said Father and Jamie had the same hair, but Jamie knew his own hair was always untidy. He had heard people call his father’s hair unruly, which meant being untidy with charisma.
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.
Eventually there were so many teachers calling in with an acute overdose of Matthew Fairchild that Ragnor Fell was left to supervise the training courses.
“If you plan to murder each other, go farther down the field where I cannot see you and won’t have to answer awkward questions.”
James did not feel Matthew had a right to characterize anyone else’s behavior as excessive, now that he had blown up the Academy.
Simon had decided that if looks matched personalities, Jon Cartwright would look like a horse’s ass. Unfortunately, there was no justice in the world, and he looked instead like a walking Ken doll. Sometimes first impressions were misleading; sometimes they peered straight through to a person’s inner soul. Simon was as sure now as he’d ever been: Jon’s inner soul was a horse’s ass.
Isabelle didn’t look inclined to say anything to the class. She simply sat beside her father, arms crossed, glowering. “She’s even prettier when she’s angry,” Jon whispered. In a miraculous triumph of restraint, Simon didn’t spear him in the eye with a pen.
Simon wondered whether the Academy would expel him for murdering Jon Cartwright in his sleep.
“It’s only as hard as you make it,” he said gently. “It’s as easy as you let it be.”
It was a lame party, the kind that even Simon had to admit might have been livened up by a demon or two.
Simon was doing his best to turn his blood into caffeine, in preparation for September.
“Helen Blackthorn is a Shadowhunter,” she spit out. “Mark Blackthorn is a Shadowhunter. If we can’t agree on that, we have a problem.”
“I object strongly to being referred to as a Moody Mildred. Especially as I really feel like I’m a Mildly Good-Humored Mildred right now. I see you’re looking forward to your big day?”
“There’s a dead rat in the bathroom, George. I am not going in the bathroom, George.” “He’s not dead,” George said. “He’s just sleeping. I’m certain of it.” “Senseless optimism is how plagues get started,” Simon said. “Ask the medieval peasants of Europe. Oh, wait, you can’t.”
“What kind of juice do you think this is?” Catarina Loss asked, joining him in the line. “Fruit,” said Simon. “Just fruit. That’s all they would tell me. I found it suspicious as well.” “I like fruit,” Catarina said, but she did not sound sure about that.
“Is Marisol all right?” he demanded. Beatriz snorted. “Oh, she’s better than all right. She’s in the infirmary with Jon waiting on her hand and foot. Because you mundanes can’t be healed with runes and she is milking that for all it’s worth. I’m not sure which has Jon more terrified, the thought of how fragile mundanes are, or the fact that she keeps threatening to explain X-ray machines to him.” Simon was very impressed that even elfshot could not slow down Marisol and all her evil.
Julian was their father, Simon thought with a dawning of horror. There was nobody else.
💔💔💔
Simon had enough to worry about. He was looking at his plate. He had also told himself to stop doing this. Stop thinking about the food. Just eat the food. But he couldn’t help himself. Every night he teased it apart. Tonight looked to be some kind of stir-fry, but it appeared to have bread in it. There were peppers. There was something red. It was pizza. Someone had stir-fried a pizza.
“How did you know?” Simon asked. “It’s not that hard to see,” Magnus replied, and finally some of the usual levity was in his voice. “I’m also literally magic.”
I never had to ask Will what he was thinking. In fact, it was usually better not to ask Will what he was thinking. . . .”
At the Accords Hall, Jace was waiting for them on the front step, looking like Jace in a suit. Jace in a suit was unbearable.
Shadowhunter Academy was not a creation of enduring beauty. Shadowhunter Academy was a dump.
Magnus stared at one of the slender towers that stood at each of the four corners of the Academy. It was not standing up straight; in fact, it looked like a poor relation of the Leaning Tower of Pisa. Magnus stared at it, concentrated, and snapped his fingers. The tower leaped back into place as if it were a crouching person who had suddenly straightened up. There was a faint series of cries issuing from the tower windows. Magnus had not realized there were people inside. This struck him as unsafe.
Sed lex, dura lex. The Law is hard, but it is the Law. Lex sucks, Simon thought.
He felt strong. He felt ready. He felt like his abs were still pretty much only a two-pack, but he supposed even a magic cup could get you only so far.
