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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