Free Bitter of Tongue by Cassandra Clare, Sarah Rees Brennan

The sun was shining, the birds were singing, and it was a beautiful day at Shadowhunter Academy.
    Well, Simon was pretty sure the sun was shining. There was a faint luminescence to the air in his and George’s underground chamber, casting a pleasant glow upon the green slime that coated their walls.
    And all right, he could not hear the birds from his subterranean room, but George did come back from the showers singing.
    “Good morning, Si! I saw a rat in the bathroom, but he was taking a nice nap and we didn’t bother each other.”
    “Or the rat was dead of a very infectious disease which has now been introduced to our water system,” Simon suggested. “We may be drinking plague-rat water for weeks.”
    “Nobody likes a Gloomy Gus,” George scolded him. “Nobody likes a Sullen Si. Nobody is here for a Moody Mildred. No one fancies—”
    “I have gathered the general tenor of your discourse, George,” said Simon. “I object strongly to being referred to as a Moody Mildred. Especially as I really feel like I’m a Mildly Good-Humored Mildred right now. I see you’re looking forward to your big day?”
    “Have a shower, Si,” George urged. “Start the day refreshed. Maybe style your hair a little. It wouldn’t kill you.”
    Simon shook his head. “There’s a dead rat in the bathroom, George. I am not going in the bathroom, George.”
    “He’s not dead,” George said. “He’s just sleeping. I’m certain of it.”
    “Senseless optimism is how plagues get started,” Simon said. “Ask the medieval peasants of Europe. Oh, wait, you can’t.”
    “Were they a jolly bunch?” George asked skeptically.
    “I’m sure they were much jollier before all the plague,” said Simon.
    He felt he was making really good points, and that he was backed up by history. He pulled off the shirt he’d slept in, which read LET’S FIGHT! and below in tiny letters OUR ENEMY OFF WITH CUNNING ARGUMENTS . George whipped Simon’s back with his wet towel, which made Simon yelp.
    Simon grinned as he pulled his gear out of their wardrobe. They were getting started right after breakfast, so he might as well change into gear straight off. Plus, every day wearing gear made for men was a victory.
    He and George went up to breakfast in good humor with all the world.
    “You know, this porridge isn’t at all bad,” Simon said, digging in. George nodded enthusiastically, his mouth full.
    Beatriz looked sad for them, and possibly sad that boys were so stupid in general. “This isn’t porridge,” she told them. “These are scrambled eggs.”
    “Oh no,” George whispered faintly, his mouth still full, his voice terribly sad. “Oh no.”
    Simon dropped his spoon and stared into the depths of his bowl with horror.
    “If they are scrambled eggs  . . . ?” he asked. “And I’m not arguing with you, Beatriz, I’m just asking what I feel is a very reasonable question  . . . if they are scrambled eggs, why are they gray?”
    Beatriz shrugged and continued eating, carefully avoiding the lumps. “Who can say?”
    That could be made into a sad song, Simon supposed. If they are eggs, why are they gray? Who can say, who can say? He found himself still thinking of song lyrics sometimes, even though he was out of the band.
    Admittedly, “Why Are the Eggs So Gray?” might not be a big hit, even on the hipster circuit.
    Julie plopped her bowl down on the table beside Beatriz.
    “The eggs are gray,” she announced. “I don’t know how they do this. Surely at this point, it would actually make sense for them not to mess up the food sometimes. Every time, every day, for over a year? Is the Academy cursed?”
    “I have been thinking it might be,” George said earnestly. “I hear an eldritch rattling sometimes, like ghosts shaking their terrible chains. Honestly, I was hoping the Academy was cursed, since otherwise it’s probably creatures in the pipes.” George shuddered. “Creatures.”
    Julie sat down. George and Simon