When they were learning the basics of swordplay, Simon was paired up with the girl he’d noticed in the dining hall, the one who had cried when Scarsbury was introduced.

“She’s from the dregs stream, but I understand you’re not particularly experienced with swordplay,” Scarsbury told him. “If she’s not enough of a challenge, let me know.”

Simon stared at Scarsbury instead of doing what he wanted to do, which was saying he could not believe an adult was calling someone “dregs” to their face.

He looked at the girl, her dark head bowed, her sword shining in her trembling hand.

“Hey. I’m Simon.”

“I know who you are,” she muttered.

Right, apparently Simon was a celebrity. If he had all his memories, maybe this would seem normal to him. Maybe he would know that he deserved it, instead of knowing he did not.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Marisol,” she told him reluctantly. She was not shaking anymore, he noted, now that Scarsbury had retreated.

“Don’t worry,” he said encouragingly. “I’ll go easy on you.”

“Hmm,” said Marisol. She did not look like she was going to cry now; her eyes were narrowed.

Simon was not used to much younger kids, but they were both mundanes. Simon had an awkward fellow feeling. “You settling in okay? Do you miss your parents?”

“I don’t have parents,” Marisol said in a small, hard voice.

Simon stood stricken. He was such an idiot. He’d thought about it, why mundane kids might come to the Academy. Mundanes would have to choose to give up their parents, their families, their former lives. Unless, of course, they already had no parents and no families. He’d thought about that, but he’d forgotten, obsessing about his own memories and how he would fit in, thinking only about himself. He had a home to go back to, even though it wasn’t perfect. He’d had a choice.

“What did the Shadowhunters tell you, when they came to recruit you?”

Marisol stared at him, her gaze clear and cold. “They told me,” she said, “that I was going to fight.”

She had been taking fencing classes since she could walk, as it turned out. She cut him off at the knees and left him literally in the dust, stumbling as a tiny, swordy whirlwind came at him across the practice grounds, and falling.

He also stabbed himself in the leg with his own sword as he fell, but that was a very minor injury.

“Went a little too easy on her,” Jon said, passing by and helping Simon up. “The dregs won’t learn if they’re not taught, you know.”

His voice was kind; his glance at Marisol was not.

“Leave her alone,” Simon muttered, but he did not say that Marisol had beaten him fairly. They all thought he was a hero.

Jon grinned at him and walked on. Marisol did not even look at him. Simon studied his leg, which stung.

It was not all stabbing. Some of it was regular stuff, like running, but as Simon tried to run and keep up with people a lot more athletic than he had ever been, he was constantly plagued by memories of how his lungs had never burned for lack of air, how his heart had never pounded from overexertion. He had been fast, once, faster than any of these Shadowhunter trainees, cold and predatory and powerful.

And dead, he reminded himself as he fell behind the others yet again. He didn’t want to be dead.

Running was still a lot better than horseback riding. The Academy introduced them to horseback riding on their first Friday there. Simon thought it was supposed to be a treat.

Everyone else acted as if it was a treat. Only those of the elite stream were allowed to go riding, and at mealtimes they had been mocking the dregs for missing out. It seemed to cheer Julie and Jon up, in the face of the endless terrible soup.

Simon, precariously balanced on top of a huge beast that was both rolling its eyes and apparently trying to tap-dance, did not feel this was any sort of treat. The dregs had been sent off to learn elementary facts about Shadowhunting. They had most of their classes apart from the elite, and Jon assured Simon they were boring. Simon felt he could really do with being bored, right about now.

“Si,” said George in an undertone. “Quick tip. Riding works better if you keep your eyes open.”

“My previous riding experience is the carousel at Central Park,” Simon snapped. “Forgive me for not being Mr. Darcy!”

George was, as several of the ladies were remarking, an excellent horseman. He barely had to move for the horse to respond to him, both of them moving smoothly together, sunlight rippling off his stupid curls. He looked right, made it all look easy and graceful, like a knight in the movies. Simon remembered reading books about magic horses that read their rider’s every thought, books about horses born of the North Wind. It was all part of being a magical warrior, having a noble steed.

Simon’s horse was defective, or possibly a genius that had worked out that Simon could not possibly control it. It went off for a wander in the woods, with Simon on its back alternately pleading, threatening, and offering bribes. If Simon’s horse could read his every thought, then Simon’s horse was a sadist.

As night drew in and the evening grew cold, the horse wandered back to its stall. Simon had no choice in the matter, but he did manage to tumble off the horse and stagger into the Academy, his fingers and knees gone entirely numb.

“Ah, there you are,” said Scarsbury. “George Lovelace was beside himself. He wanted to assemble a search party for you.”

Simon regretted his spiteful thoughts about George’s horsemanship.

“Let me guess,” said Simon. “Everyone else said ‘Nah, being left for dead builds character.’”

“I was not concerned you were going to be eaten by bears in the deep dark woods,” said Scarsbury, who did not look as if he had ever been concerned about anything in his life, ever.

“Of course you weren’t, that would be abs—”

“You had your dagger,” added Scarsbury casually, and walked away, leaving Simon to call after him.

“My—my bear-killing dagger? Do you really think me killing bears with a dagger is a plausible scenario? What information do you have about bears in these woods? I think it’s your responsibility as an educator to tell me if there are bears in the woods.”

“See you at javelin practice bright and early, Lewis,” said Scarsbury, and marched on without looking back.

“Are there bears in the woods?” Simon repeated to himself. “It’s a simple question. Why are Shadowhunters so bad at simple questions?”

*    *    *

The days passed in a blur of horrible violent activity. If it wasn’t javelin practice, Simon was getting thrown around a room (George was very apologetic later, but that did not help). If it wasn’t dagger work, it was more swordplay and humiliating defeat before the blades of tiny, evil trainee Shadowhunters. If it wasn’t swordplay, it was the obstacle course, and Simon refused to speak of the obstacle course. Julie and Jon were growing noticeably cool at mealtimes, and a few comments about mundies were passed.

At last Simon staggered wearily to the next exercise in futility and sharp objects, and Scarsbury placed a bow in his hands.

“I want everyone to try to hit the targets,” said Scarsbury. “And, Lewis, I want you to try not to hit any of the other trainees.”

Simon felt the weight of the bow in his hands. It had a nice balance, he thought, easy to lift and manipulate. He nocked the arrow, and felt the tautness of the string, ready to release, primed to let it fly along the path Simon wanted.

He drew his arm back, and it was that easy: bull’s-eye. He fired once more, and then again, arrows flying to find their targets, and his arms burned and his heart pounded with something like joy. He was glad to be able to feel his muscles working and his heart thumping. He was so glad to be alive again, and able to feel every moment of this.