Isabelle could not tell if Jonathan’s expressionless face was to ward them off or protect himself, but he was hurt. Alec was still shy with strangers, and Jonathan was a closed-off human being, so they were going to be awkward even though Isabelle could tell they both really liked each other. Isabelle sighed. Boys were hopeless, and she had to take charge of this situation.

“Hold still, idiot,” she ordered Jonathan, seized ointment from Alec’s hands, and began to smear it over Jonathan’s cut. “I am going to be a ministering angel.”

“Um,” said Alec. “That’s a lot of ointment.”

It did look a little like when you squeezed the center of the tube of toothpaste too hard, but Isabelle felt you did not get results without being willing to make a mess.

“It’s fine,” said Jonathan quickly. “It’s great. Thank you, Isabelle.”

Isabelle glanced up and grinned at him. Alec efficiently unwound a bandage. Having gotten them started, Isabelle stepped back. Her parents would object if she accidentally turned their guest into a mummy.

“What’s going on?” said Robert Lightwood’s voice from the door. “Jonathan! You said you were not hurt.”

When Isabelle looked, she saw both her mom and dad standing at the threshold of the kitchen, arms folded and eyes narrowed. She imagined they would have objections to her and Alec playing doctor with the new kid. Strong objections.

“We were just patching Jonathan up,” Alec announced anxiously, ranging himself in front of Jonathan’s stool. “No big deal.”

“It was my fault I got hurt,” said Jonathan. “I know excuses are for incompetents. It won’t happen again.”

“It won’t?” asked her mother. “All warriors get wounded sometimes. Planning to run away and become a Silent Brother?”

Jonathan Wayland shrugged. “I applied to the Iron Sisters, but they sent me a hurtful and sexist refusal.”

Everyone laughed. Jonathan looked briefly startled again, then pleased, before he shut away his expressions as if slamming a lid down on a treasure chest. Isabelle’s mother was the one who went and gave Jonathan an iratze, while her father stayed by the door.

“Jonathan?” Maryse remarked. “Does anyone ever call you anything else?”

“No,” said Jonathan. “My father used to tell a joke about having another Jonathan, if I wasn’t good enough.”

Isabelle did not think that was much of a joke.

“I always think that naming one of our kids Jonathan is like the mundanes calling kids Jebediah,” said Isabelle’s mother.

“John,” said her father. “Mundanes often call their kids John.”

“Do they?” asked Maryse, and shrugged. “I could have sworn it was Jebediah.”

“My middle name is Christopher,” said Jonathan. “You can—you can call me Christopher if you like.”