Simon paused and tried to think of some way to explain demon-related amnesia that would not convince George that Simon had the same problems as George’s grandma. Then he saw George was looking at him, his brown eyes wide.

“You’re Simon,” he breathed. “Simon Lewis.”

“Right,” Simon said. “Hey. Is my name on the door, or—is there some sort of register I’m meant to be signing—”

“The vampire,” said George. “Mary Morgenstern’s best friend!”

“Uh, Clary,” said Simon. “Uh, yeah. I like to think of myself as the ex-undead.”

The way George was looking at him, as if he was seriously impressed rather than disappointed or expectant, was a little embarrassing. Simon had to admit, it was also a little nice. It was so different from the way anyone else had looked at him, in his old life or his new one.

“You don’t understand. I arrived in this freezing hellhole full of slime and rodents, and the whole Academy was buzzing with people talking about these heroes who are my age and actually went to a hell dimension. It gave real perspective to the fact that the toilets don’t work here.”

“The toilets don’t work? But what do we—how do we—”

George coughed. “We commune with nature, if you know what I’m saying.”

George and Simon looked out of their casement window to the forest below, leaves gently swaying in the wind beyond the diamond-shaped panes of glass. George and Simon looked, darkly, sadly, back at each other.

“Seriously, you and your hero group is all anybody talks about,” George said, returning to a more cheerful subject. “Well, that and the fact we have pigeons living in the ovens. You saved the world, didn’t you? And you don’t remember it. That’s got to be weird.”

“It is weird, George, thanks for mentioning that.”

George laughed, tossed his broken racket on the floor, and kept looking at Simon as if he was someone amazing. “Wow. Simon Lewis. I guess I have someone at Spinechilling Academy to thank for getting the cool roommate.”

*    *    *

George led Simon down to dinner, for which Simon was deeply grateful. The dining hall looked a lot like all the other square stone rooms in the Academy, except on one end it had a massive carved mantelpiece, displaying crossed swords and a motto so worn that Simon could not read it.

There were several round tables, with wooden chairs of varying sizes assembled around them. Simon was starting to genuinely believe they had furnished the Academy from an old person’s garage sale. The tables were crowded with kids. Most of them were at least two years younger than Simon. Quite a few were younger than that. Simon had not realized he was on the elderly side for a trainee demon hunter, and it made him nervous. He was deeply relieved when he saw some mildly familiar faces his own age.

Julie of the pursed face, Beatriz, and another boy saw them and waved them over. Simon assumed the wave was for George, but when he sat down Julie actually leaned into him.

“I can’t believe you didn’t say you were Simon Lewis,” she said. “I thought you were just a mundane.”

Simon leaned slightly away. “I am just a mundane.”

Julie laughed. “You know what I mean.”

“She means we all owe you a debt, Simon,” said Beatriz Mendoza, smiling at him. She had a great smile. “We don’t forget that. It’s a pleasure to meet you, and it’s a pleasure to have you here. We might even be able to get sensible conversation out of a boy for once. No chance of that with Jon here.”

The boy, who had biceps the size of Simon’s head, reached across the table and offered a hand. Despite his extreme arm intimidation, Simon shook it.

“I’m Jonathan Cartwright. Pleasure.”

“Jonathan,” Simon repeated.

“It’s a very common name for Shadowhunters,” said Jon. “After Jonathan Shadowhun—”

“Er, no, I know, I have my copy of the Codex,” said Simon. Clary had given him hers, actually, and he’d had fun reading the scribbling of practically everybody in the Institute on the pages. He’d felt he was getting to know them, safely away from them where they could not see him fail and expose his gaps of knowledge. “It’s just . . . I know some people called Jonathan. Not that any of them call themselves Jonathan. Called themselves Jonathan.”

He did not remember much about Clary’s brother, but he knew his name. He did not particularly want to remember more.

“Oh, right, Jonathan Herondale,” said Jon. “Of course you know him. I’m actually pretty good friends with him myself. Taught him a trick or two that probably helped you all out in the demon realms, am I right?”

“Do you mean—Jace?” Simon asked dubiously.

“Yeah, obviously,” said Jon. “He’s probably mentioned me.”

“Not that I recall . . . ,” said Simon. “But I do have demon amnesia. So there’s that.”

Jon nodded and shrugged. “Right. Bummer. He’s probably mentioned me and you forgot, on account of the demon amnesia. Not to brag, but we’re pretty close, me and Jace.”

“I wish I was close to Jace Herondale,” Julie sighed. “He is so gorgeous.”

“He is foxier than a fox fur in a fox hole on fox hunting day,” Beatriz agreed dreamily.

“Who’s this?” asked Jon, squinting at George, who was leaning back in his chair and looking rather amused.

“Speaking of people being foxy, do you mean? I’m George Lovelace,” said George. “I say my surname without shame, because I am secure in my masculinity like that.”

“Oh, a Lovelace,” said Jon, his brow clearing. “Yeah, you can sit with us.”

“I’ve got to say, my surname has never actually been a selling point before, though,” George remarked. “Shadowhunters, go figure.”

“Well, you know,” said Julie. “You’re going to want to hang out with people in your own stream.”

“Come again?” Simon asked.

“There are two different streams in the Academy,” Beatriz explained. “The stream for mundanes, where they inform the students more fully about the world and give them badly needed basic training, and the stream for real Shadowhunter kids, where we’re taught from a more advanced curriculum.”

Julie’s lip curled. “What Beatriz’s saying is, there’s the elite and there’s the dregs.”

Simon stared at them, with a sinking feeling. “So . . . I’m going to be in the dregs course.”

“No, Simon, no!” Jon exclaimed, looking shocked. “Of course you won’t be.”

“But I’m a mundane,” Simon said again.

“You’re not a regular mundane, Simon,” Julie told him. “You’re an exceptional mundane. That means exceptions are going to be made.”

“If anyone tried to put you in with the mundanes, I’d have words with them,” Jon continued loftily. “Any friend of Jace Herondale’s is, naturally, a friend of mine.”

Julie patted Simon’s hand. Simon stared at his hand as if it did not belong to him. He did not want to be put in the stream for losers, but he didn’t feel comfortable about being assured he would not be either.

But he did think he remembered Isabelle, Jace, and Alec saying some sketchy things about mundanes, now and then. Isabelle, Jace, and Alec weren’t so bad. It was just the way they were brought up: They didn’t mean what it seemed like they meant. Simon was pretty sure.

Beatriz, who Simon had liked on sight, leaned in across Julie and said: “You’ve more than earned your place.”

She smiled shyly at him. Simon could not help smiling back.

“So . . . I’m going to be in the dregs course?” George asked slowly. “I don’t know anything about Shadowhunters and Downworlders and demons.”

“Oh no,” said Jon. “You’re a Lovelace. You’ll find it will all come very easily to you: It’s in your blood.”

George bit his lip. “If you say so.”

“Most students in the Academy will be in the elite course,” Beatriz said hastily. “Our new recruits are mostly like you, George. Shadowhunters are searching all over the world for lost and scattered people with Shadowhunter blood.”