“It’s all right,” James said breathlessly. “Only it didn’t work. If I turned into a shadow every time something hit me, I couldn’t patrol.” He stared up at the ceiling, which had mirrors on it. He could see himself lying splayed on the parquet, hair very black against the white, Matthew kneeling over him like a squire over the body of a dead knight.

He could see Christopher and Thomas in the mirror as well, or at least the tops of their heads. Christopher was reaching up to pull something down from the wall. Thomas had his arms crossed.

Matthew jumped to his feet with the agility of a fox and held out a hand to help James up after him. James had only just regained his footing when an arrow shot past his head. One of the windows shattered, and Matthew threw himself against James. They tumbled to the floor again, knocking the breath out of James for the second time in five minutes.

He rolled into a sitting position, shouldering Matthew aside, to find Thomas goggling at Christopher, who was clutching one of the bows that had been hanging on the wall.

“In case anyone was wondering if those were purely ornamental,” said James, getting to his feet, “they are not.”

“In the name of a million bloody angels, Christopher, what the hell did you just do?” Matthew demanded, leaping up after James. “Did you try to kill James?”

Christopher lowered the bow. James thought he could hear noises in the Institute: doors slamming in the distance and running feet. Bloody hell.

“I was not trying to kill James,” said Christopher in an injured tone. “I was hoping the shock of the arrow flying past would startle him into the shadow realm. Pity it didn’t work. We must think of a new plan to grievously alarm James at once.”

“Christopher!” James exclaimed. “I cannot believe you would say that! I also cannot believe you would shoot at me.”

“It had a seventy-two percent chance of working, in perfect laboratory conditions—”

“We are not in perfect laboratory conditions!” James shouted. “We are in the ballroom of my house!”

At that moment, the doors of the ballroom rattled. “What’s going on?” It was Will’s voice. “James, are you in there?”

“Bloody hell. My father,” James said, casting about. “Look, all of you—get out through the windows. Well, the broken one anyway. I’ll take the blame. I’ll say I shot the window out.”

“In the ballroom?” Thomas said practically. “Why would you do such a rattle-headed thing?”

“I’m capable of anything!” James made a grab for Christopher’s bow; Christopher ran around behind Thomas as if his friend were a maypole. “Come on, Kit, give it over—”

Thomas rolled his eyes. “He’s going to say, ‘Because I’m a Herondale,’ isn’t he?”