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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.
    Simon lowered his bow to find everybody staring at him.
    “Can you do that again?” asked Scarsbury.
    He’d learned to shoot arrows in summer camp, but standing here holding a bow, he remembered something else. He