James was sitting at the table, his feet dangling, a few inches shy of the floor. He looked glumly at his plate of scrambled egg. It had turned cold, and he poked the pale jellied lumps distastefully with his fork.

His mother and father sat at opposite ends of the table; both reading, of course. His father's face was masked by a letter that he held up. His mother drank her tea demurely with her right hand, her left propping open the yellowed pages of a novel that was laid on the table. Sometimes, it annoyed James that his parents appeared to do nothing else with their leisure time but read. He'd thought everyone did it until he'd started school in Idris; and the other children had promptly informed him that his parents' obsession with sensationalist novels was anything but normal.

His mother said, "Why aren't you eating? Jamie, what's the matter?"

James mumbled, "I don't want to go to school today." He half hoped that she wouldn't hear him.

He peeked up at her. She was turned towards him; novel forgotten. "Why not?"

The indecision he felt was almost painful. Should he lie? Feign illness instead? "Because…because I—"

At that moment, his father burst into laughter. His mother and he looked over at him. His father leaned back in his chair, lowering the letter to the table. An idle grin curved his mouth as his fingers distractedly stroked the edge of his jaw, which was shadowed with dark stubble. He chuckled, "Oh that's marvellous."

His mother's expression was not amused. "Something funny?"

His father waved his left hand vaguely without looking up from the letter: "Oh, it's from Cecy. Apparently, they were obliged to cut short their holiday because Lightworm fell—in a rut—in a field—and broke his leg," His shoulders juddered with silent laughter.

James glanced at his mother; the fine edges of her mouth were curved upwards in restrained amusement. "His entire leg?"

His father replied, "Yes, he wobbled and landed very awkwardly on a rather large boulder."

His mother pressed her lips together, and turned back to James. "I'm awfully sorry; what were you saying—"

"Doesn't matter." He decided that, for today, he would have to face it.

"No, please tell me. Are you feeling unwell?" She leaned over, and pressed the back of her hand to his forehead.

James recoiled from her touch. "No, mama, I'm fine."

"Well, then, what is it? I can't help you if you don't tell me,"

James put down his fork. He wondered if he had the courage to tell her. And even if he did tell his mother…what could she do about it? They would think him a coward. He didn't want his parents to think he was a coward.

He felt intensely guilty as he said lowly, his head bent, "I don't like the other children. They're horrible."

He saw his mother lean in closer. "Why? Why are they horrible?"

James felt his heart throb in his chest; there was a hard knot in his throat. "They say things…about me; about us."

He felt piercing regret. Had he revealed too much? Would she press him, now, for more information? He glanced up at her; she'd sat back, her chin high, her expression solemn; a crinkle between her brow. "About you…about us? What do they say?"

His father burst into laughter again. He threw his head over the back of the chair, his hand resting on his laughing stomach; eyes closed blissfully, grinning delightedly at the ceiling. His shirtsleeves were open at the neck, bearing the tip of a thick runic whorl. "Will," His mother reproached sharply. "Would you have some courtesy? I'm trying to talk to Jamie."

Abruptly, his laughter ceased; he opened his eyes and sighed at the ceiling. "Fine. Fine, fine, fine, fine, fine," he muttered as he pushed himself to his feet and wandered out of the room, whistling a tune.

His mother's eyes followed him slyly, which she turned back to James as soon as the door banged behind him. "What, precisely, do they say?"

I'm such a coward, he thought. I shouldn't have to tell her this. It looks like I'm hiding behind her skirts. If I could just stand up to them. He murmured, "I don't want to say,"

"Jamie, look at me." He felt his mother's fingers under his chin, forcing his head up. "I want you to tell me. Please."

"Promise you won't be cross?"

"Cross? Of course I won't be cross at you,"

He said quietly, "They say…they say you're—half-demon, half-Shadowhunter. Is it true?"

His mother's face went slack in horror. Then, her attention was abruptly seized by the reappearance of his father, strolling jauntily back towards the table; gently bouncing a tiny person against his shoulder. Lucie's frilly nightdress had scrunched up where his father's arm was wrapped around her, revealing little white bare ankles and feet.

Beaming at her, his father didn't look up at his mother as she gestured in protest and called, "She was asleep!"

His father pointed a stern finger back and said, "Not anymore." He drew his chair out in a wide circle, and flopped down dramatically, cupping his hand around the back of Lucie's head, kissing her forehead softly. He confided to her, "The only person who's in a good mood this morning, aren't you? Yes," and kissed her again, on the tip of her nose.

Lucie rewarded this comment with an excited gurgle, and threw her arms up and over their father's head, grabbing thick fistfuls of black hair. His father's expression quickly soured, mouthing, Ow, ow, ow and reached up to disentangle himself. He wrestled her arms back to her sides. He said to her, "No. No. We don't do that—"

His mother, eyebrow cocked approvingly, remarked, "Stronger than she looks, isn't she?"

His father made a grumbling noise to no one, and then proceeded to blow on the downy tufts of light brown hair on her head, which were sticking up vertically, fresh from sleep. Lucie, notoriously ticklish, wriggled gleefully, and shook her head, giggling.

James said to his mother, "But is it true, what they say? That you're half-demon?"

His father suddenly looked up at them, his expression robbed of all hilarity. He said severely, "Where did you hear that?"

Reluctantly, James admitted that he'd heard it in Idris. In school.

When he was finished, his father pressed Lucie very close to his chest; she occupied herself fiddling with his open shirt collar while his father looked very gravely at his mother across the table. She returned his gaze; it looked as if they were speaking in each other's heads.

"Mother," James prompted. "It can't be true, can it?"

She looked down at her lap and said sorrowfully, "Yes, Jamie. Yes, it's true."

No, no, no, James thought. "So—so they're right, then? I'm tainted—I'm not really a Shadowhunter?"

His mother said, "No, no, James, of course n—"

His father's voice thundered. "They've been saying that to you? How could you believe such poison—that you're tainted by your mother—"Lucie began to moan, squirming uneasily in his father's arms.

His mother said, "But Shadowhunter blood is dominant, Jamie. Whatever I may be…you are more Shadowhunter than you are anything else, believe me—"

"But—" James interrupted, "I'm still something else, though, aren't I? Isn't that what you're saying? That I have your demon blood inside me?"

His mother flinched; she looked on the verge of tears. Still, James forged ahead. "That's where I get these from, isn't it?" He pointed to his eyes, though he wasn't thinking of them when he heard hatred leak into his voice. "You."

Cowed, his mother swallowed and looked away. "Jamie, I'm so sorry."

Lucie began to cry. It was a cry of distress, small and whimpering at first, and then ragged and wailing. His father ordered, "Jamie. Take Lucie back to the nursery." He held her out for him; reluctantly, he went over, and took her from his hands. She was getting very heavy now. Screeching in his ear, he leaned away from her. He watched his father rush towards his mother, going to his knees beside her. He pulled her into his arms, kissing the side of her face frantically. His mother's face was pressed gratefully into her father's shoulder. As James left the room, he thought he saw her sob.

James didn't take Lucie to the nursery. He brought her to the library instead. After checking he was alone, he put her down on the rug near the hearth; selected a book for himself, and tried to read it to her. Eventually, the sound of his voice lulled her into quiescence, and James dragged her into his lap, heavy and warm and wet with tears, as she collapsed onto his stomach, fast asleep.

She was curled up, sucking her thumb when the door opened. James looked up. His father. He announced, "You must apologise to your mother. Now."

He hates me, he thought miserably. Mama hates me. They all hate me. Still, he said, "But I didn't say anything that was untrue,"

"What you said was hurtful."

"Yes, and what they to me every day is hurtful, but it's still true."

"Wh—Jamie, what are you talking about, what are they saying to you?"

His voice quavered as he said, "They say I'm only half-Shadowhunter. They say I'm a freak."

His father sighed. "Jamie, you're not—"

"No, but I am!"

"No! You're not—"

He exploded, "But I can do things! They can't!"

His father went rigid. "What? Do what things?"

"I—I can't say it."

His father said slowly, "Could you…show me?"

James nodded. He lifted Lucie off him, and went obediently into the shadow.

There was a perverse part of him that was acutely relieved to be telling his father. He was so worried that he'd do it one day, by accident. He'd often imagined the look of horror and repulsion on their faces. He had kept it secret for so long, now, that he'd long ago mastered how to will his power to come to him; but he hadn't learned how to keep it away. And it only ever slipped out of his control in the places he desperately didn't want it to happen. Like school.

His father gasped, "By the angel!"

James forced himself back into solid form.

Seeing him again, his father, to James' shock, began to laugh. "Oh, son. You worry too much. Come here."

James timidly approached his father, and he felt tears, to his burning shame dripping down his face. "I'm sorry I upset mama,"

Then, his father crouched down to his level, and crushed him roughly against him. James wanted to stop crying, but this only made his tears course faster. He said to him, "Have they seen you do that?"

James nodded mutely.

"Is that when they started saying those things to you?"

He nodded.

His father pulled away, and said, "Listen to me. Being able to do that doesn't make you a freak. It just means you're special. You have a power other people do not. They're afraid of it, and they're jealous of it. Your mother can also do…extraordinary things."

Stunned, James whispered, "What? Can she do what I can do?"

"Not quite. Her talent is different."

"What is it?"

His father got to his feet. He looked around the room, and said pensively, "Shall we see if she'll show us?"