The Herondale family is an old Shadowhunter family. They have lived in a variety of places; notably in Wales, Yorkshire, London, Idris, and New York. The men of the family are known to be born with star-shaped marks on their shoulders, originating from when Will Herondale’s shoulder came into contact with the angel Ithuriel in the late 1870s.
The Fairchild family has lived in an array of places over the generations. In the 1800s, they ran the London Institute; Granville was the first known Fairchild to lead the Institute, and, later, his daughter, Charlotte took over the post, before she ultimately went on to become the first female Consul.
Lucie plowed on, undeterred by the question of whether England’s foremost romantic poet did or did not stare out of windows. “He won’t say anything to anyone but Matthew, and Matthew is a tomb where James is concerned. I heard a bit of their conversation once by accident, though —“
“Accident?” Cordelia raised an eyebrow.
“I may have been hiding beneath a table,” said Lucie, with dignity. “But it was only because I had lost an earring and was looking for it.”
❝We don’t have to be… parabatai. […] I said it to make your father take me with you, so I could execute my new plan, but we don’t… have to. I mean, unless you… maybe want to be❞
James had thought he wanted a friend like himself, a parabatai who was shy and quiet and would enter in on James’ feelings about the terror or parties. Instead was Matthew, who was the life and soul of every party, who made dreadful hairbrush decisions, who was unexpectedly and terribly kind. Who had tried to be his friend and kept trying, even thought James did not know what trying to be a friend looked like. Who could see James, even when he was a shadow.
❝Yes❞ James said simply.
❝What?❞ said Matthew, who always knew what to say.
❝I’d like that❞ said James. He curled his hands, one around his father’s coat sleeve, and one around Matthew’s. He held on to them, all the way home.
The portrait was of a boy, about seventeen years old. He was sitting in a chair, his head resting against the back as if he did not have the strength to support it on his own. He was terribly thin and as white as salt. His eyes were a deep, still green, like a woodland pool hidden under the overhanging leaves of a tree, never exposed to sun or wind. His had dark hair falling, as fine-spun and straight as silk, across his brow, and his long fingers were curled over the arms of the chair, almost clinging to it, and the desperate clutch of those hands told a silent story of pain.