Pale Kings and Princes (3 page)

Maybe that was it: The question of guilt handed down through bloodlines, the sins of the fathers visited on not just their sons but their friends, neighbors, and random acquaintances who happened to have similarly shaped ears. You couldn’t just indict an entire people—or in this case, Downworlder species—because you didn’t like how a few of them behaved. He’d spent enough time in Hebrew school to know how that kind of thing ended. Fortunately, before he could formulate an explanation for George that didn’t name check Hitler, Professor Catarina Loss materialized before them.

Materialized, literally, in a rather theatrical puff of smoke. Warlock prerogative, Simon supposed, although showing off wasn’t Catarina’s style. Usually she blended in with the rest of the Academy faculty, making it easy to forget she was a warlock (at least, if you overlooked the blue skin). But he’d noticed that whenever another Downworlder was on campus, Catarina went out of her way to play up her warlockiness.

Not that Helen was a Downworlder, Simon reminded himself.

On the other hand, Simon wasn’t a Downworlder either—or hadn’t been for more than a year now—and Catarina still insisted on calling him Daylighter. According to her, once a Downworlder, always, in some tiny, subconscious, embedded-in-the-soul part, a Downworlder. She always sounded so certain of this, as if she knew something he didn’t. After talking to her, Simon often found himself tonguing his canine teeth, just to make sure he hadn’t sprouted fangs.

“Might I speak with you for a moment, Daylighter?” she said. “Privately?”

George, who’d been a bit nervous around Catarina ever since she had, very briefly, turned him into a sheep, had clearly been waiting for an excuse to run away. He took it.

Simon found himself surprisingly glad to be alone with Catarina;
she
, at least, was certain to be on his side. “Professor Loss, you won’t believe what just happened in class with Professor Mayhew—”

“How was your summer, Daylighter?” She gave him a thin smile. “Pleasant, I trust? Not too much sun?”

In all the time he’d known Catarina Loss, she’d never bothered with small talk. It seemed an odd time to start. “You did know Helen Blackthorn was here, right?” Simon said.

She nodded. “I know most everything that goes on around here. I thought you’d figured that out.”

“Then I’m guessing you know how Professor Mayhew was treating her.”

“Like something less than human, I would imagine?”

“Exactly!” Simon exclaimed. “Like something scraped off the bottom of his shoe.”

“In my experience, that’s how Professor Mayhew treats most people.”

Simon shook his head. “If you’d seen it . . . this was worse. Maybe I should tell Dean Penhallow?” The idea seized him only as it was coming out of his mouth, but he liked the sound of it. “She can, I don’t know . . .” It wasn’t like she could give him a detention.
“Something.”

Catarina pursed her lips. “You must do what you think is right, Daylighter. But I can tell you that Dean Penhallow has little authority on the subject of Helen Blackthorn’s treatment here.”

“But she’s the dean. She should—oh.” Slowly but surely, the pieces slotted into place. Dean Penhallow was cousin to
Aline
Penhallow. Helen’s girlfriend. Aline’s mother, Jia, the Consul, was supposedly biased on the subject of Helen, and had recused herself from determining her treatment. If even the Consul couldn’t intercede on Helen’s behalf, then presumably the dean had even less hope of doing so. It seemed hideously unfair to Simon, that the people who cared most for Helen were the ones least involved in deciding her fate. “Why would Helen even come here?” Simon wondered. “I know Wrangel Island must suck, but could it be any worse than getting paraded around here, where everyone seems to hate her?”

“You can ask her yourself,” Catarina said. “That’s why I wanted to speak with you. Helen asked me to send you over to her cabin after your classes end today. She has something for you.”

“She does? What?”

“You’ll have to ask that for yourself too. You’ll find her lodgings at the edge of the western quad.”

“She’s staying on campus?” Simon said, surprised. He couldn’t understand why Helen would come here in the first place, but it was even harder to imagine her wanting to stay. “She must have friends in Alicante she could stay with.”

“I’m sure she does, even now,” Catarina said, something kind and sad in her voice, as if she were, very, very gently, letting down a child. “But, Simon, you’re presuming she had a choice.”

*   *   *

Simon hesitated at the door of the cabin, willing himself to knock. It was his least favorite thing, meeting someone he’d known in his before life, as he’d come to think of it. There was always the fear they would expect something of him he couldn’t deliver, or assume he knew something he’d forgotten. There was, too often, a gleam of hope in their eyes that was extinguished as soon as he opened his mouth.

At least, he told himself, he’d barely known Helen. She couldn’t be expecting much from him. Unless there was something he didn’t know.

And there must be
something
he didn’t know. . . . Why else would she have summoned him?

Only one way to find out, Simon thought, and knocked at the door.

Helen had changed into a bright polka-dotted sundress and looked much younger than she had in the classroom. Also much happier. Her smile widened substantially when she saw who was at the door.

“Simon! I’m so glad. Come on in, sit down, would you like something to eat or drink? Maybe a cup of coffee?”

Simon settled himself on the small living room’s only couch. It was uncomfortable and threadbare, embroidered with a faded flower pattern that looked like something his grandmother might have owned. He wondered who usually lived here, or whether the Academy simply maintained the ramshackle cabin for visiting faculty. Though he couldn’t imagine there were many visiting faculty members who wanted to live in a broken-down hut on the edge of the woods that looked like somewhere Hansel and Gretel’s witch might have lived before she discovered candy-based architecture.

“No, thanks, I’m fine—” Simon stopped as her last word registered with him. “Did you say
coffee
?”

Half a week into the new school year, Simon was already in serious caffeine withdrawal. Before he could tell her
yes, please, a bucketful
, Helen had already placed a steaming mug in his hands. “I thought so,” she said.

Simon swallowed greedily, caffeine buzzing through his system. He didn’t know how anyone was supposed to be human—much less, in the Shadowhunter case, superhuman—without a daily dose. “Where did you get this?”

“Magnus magicked me up a nonelectric coffeemaker,” Helen said, grinning. “Kind of a parting gift before we left for Wrangel Island. Now I can’t live without it.”

“How is it there?” Simon asked. “On the Island?”

Helen hesitated, and he wondered if he’d made a mistake. Was it rude to ask someone how they were enjoying their exile in a Siberian-like wilderness?

“Cold,” she said finally. “Lonely.”

“Oh.” What could he say to that? “
Sorry”
didn’t quite seem to cover it, and she didn’t look like she wanted his pity.

“But we’re together, at least. Aline and I. That’s something. That’s everything, I suppose. I still can’t believe she agreed to marry me.”

“You’re getting married?” Simon exclaimed. “That’s amazing!”

“It is, isn’t it?” Helen smiled. “It’s hard to believe how much light you can find in the darkness, when you have someone who loves you.”

“Did she come with you?” Simon asked, looking around the small cabin. There was only one other room, the bedroom, he assumed, its door closed. He couldn’t remember meeting Aline, but from everything Clary had told him, he was curious.

“No,” Helen said sharply. “That wasn’t part of the deal.”

“What deal?”

Instead of answering, she abruptly changed the subject. “So, did you enjoy my lecture this morning?”

Now it was Simon who hesitated, unsure how to answer. He didn’t want to suggest he’d found her lecture dull—but it seemed equally wrong to suggest he’d enjoyed hearing her terrible story or seeing Professor Mayhew humiliate her. “I was surprised you’d want to give the lecture,” he said finally. “It can’t be easy, telling that story.”

Helen gave him a wry smile. “ʻWant’ is a strong word.” She got up to pour him another cup of coffee, then began bustling with a stack of dishes in the tiny kitchenette. Simon got the feeling she was just trying to keep her hands busy. And maybe avoid meeting his eye. “I made a deal with them. The Clave.” She ran her hands nervously through her blond hair, and Simon caught a brief glimpse of her pointed ears. “They said if I came to the Academy for a couple days, let them parade me around like some kind of half-faerie show pony, then Aline and I could come back.”

“For good?”

She laughed bitterly. “For one day and one night, to be married.”

Simon thought, suddenly, of what Beatriz had asked him earlier that day. Why he was trying so hard to become a Shadowhunter.

Sometimes he couldn’t quite remember.

“They didn’t even want to let us come back at all,” Helen said bitterly. “They wanted us to have the wedding on Wrangel Island. If you can even call that a wedding, in a frozen hellhole without anyone you love there with you. I guess I should feel lucky I got this much out of them.”

Less lucky than disgusted, or maybe enraged, Simon thought, but it didn’t seem like it would be helpful to say so out loud. “I’m surprised they care so much about one lecture,” he said instead. “I mean, not that it wasn’t educational, but Professor Mayhew could have just told us the story himself.”

Helen turned away from her kitchen busywork and met Simon’s gaze. “They don’t care about the lecture. This isn’t about your education. It’s about humiliating me. That’s all.” She gave herself a little shake, then smiled too brightly, her eyes shining. “Forget about all that. You came here to get something from me—here it is.” Helen slipped an envelope from her pocket and handed it to Simon.

Curious, he tore it open and pulled out a small piece of thick ivory stationery, inscribed with a familiar hand.

Simon stopped breathing.

Dear Simon,
Izzy wrote.

I know I’ve developed a habit of ambushing you at school.

This was true. Isabelle had popped up more than once when he’d least expected her. Every time she showed up on campus, they fought; every time, he was sorry to see her go.

I promised myself I’m not going to do that anymore. But there’s something I’d like to talk to you about. So this is me, giving you advance warning. If it’s okay for me to come for a visit, you can let Helen know, and she’ll get word to me. If it’s not okay, you can tell her that too. Whatever.—Isabelle

Simon read the brief note several times, trying to intuit the tone behind the words. Affectionate? Eager? Businesslike?

Until this week he’d been only an e-mail or a phone call away—why wait until he was back at the Academy to reach out? Why reach out at all?

Maybe because it would be easier to reject him for good when he was safely on another continent?

But in that case, why Portal all the way to Idris to do it face-to-face?

“Maybe you need some time to think about it?” Helen said finally.

He’d forgotten she was there. “No!” Simon blurted out. “I mean, no, I don’t need time to think about it, but yes, yes, she can come visit. Of course. Please, tell her.”

Stop babbling,
he ordered himself. Bad enough he turned into a driveling fool every time Isabelle was in the room with him these days—was he now going to start doing so at the sound of her name?

Helen laughed. “See, I told you so,” she said loudly.

“Er, you told me what?” Simon asked.

“You heard him, come out!” Helen called, even louder, and the bedroom door creaked open.

Isabelle Lightwood didn’t have it in her to look sheepish. But her face was doing its best. “Surprise?”

When Simon had regained his power of speech, there was only one word available in his brain. “Isabelle.”

Whatever crackled and sizzled between them was apparently so palpable that Helen could sense it too, because she swiftly slid past Isabelle into the bedroom and shut the door.

Leaving the two of them alone.

“Hi, Simon.”

“Hi, Izzy.”

“You’re, uh, probably wondering what I’m doing here.” It wasn’t like her to sound so uncertain.

Simon nodded.

“You never called me,” she said. “I saved you from getting decapitated by an Eidolon demon, and you didn’t even
call
.”

“You never called me, either,” Simon pointed out. “And . . . uh . . . also, I kind of felt like I should have been able to save myself.”

Isabelle sighed. “I thought you might be thinking that.”

“Because I
should
have, Izzy.”

“Because you’re an
idiot
, Simon.” She brightened. “But this is your lucky day, because I’ve decided I’m not giving up yet. This is too important to give up just because of a bad date.”

“Three bad dates,” he pointed out. “Like,
really
bad dates.”

“The worst,” she agreed.

“The
worst
? Jace told me you once went out with a merman who made you have dinner in the river,” Simon said. “Surely our dates weren’t as bad as—”

“The
worst
,” she confirmed, and broke into laughter. Simon thought his heart would burst at the sound of it—there was something so carefree, so joyous in the music of her laugh, it was almost like a promise. That if they could navigate a path through all the awkwardness and pain and burden of expectations, if they could find their way back to each other, something that pure and joyful awaited them.

“I don’t want to give up either,” Simon said, and the smile she rewarded him with was even better than the laughter.

Isabelle settled beside him on the small couch. Simon was suddenly extremely conscious of the inches separating their thighs. Was he supposed to make a move
right now
?