“Sorry, I slipped.”
Rohan snorted. “Pity I missed the fencing,” he said. “It would have been immensely gratifying to see Adam run through with a sword.”
One of the boys playing cricket had put down his gear and was heading toward them. Because of the slant of the sunlight, Henry couldn’t tell who it was; it could have been anyone—not that anyone talked to them—but Henry had a sinking feeling.
Too late to turn and walk the other direction, they realized who it was: Valmont.
“Nice trousers,” Valmont said to Frankie with a disapproving frown. “It’s a shame you weren’t raised to behave decently. Haven’t you a mother who cares?”
“My mother’s dead,” Frankie said, clenching her fists, “as you soon will be.”
Valmont threw his head back and laughed.
“As if you could hurt a fly without sobbing into your little embroidered handkerchief about it,” he said, and then his eyes narrowed as he spotted the bandage on Adam’s arm.
Adam pushed his sleeve down over the bandage, but it was too late.
“You’ve been fencing,” Valmont accused, and then he put two and two together and his eyes widened. “You’ve been fencing a girl. And she hurt you. Oh, this is precious.”
“Keep your mouth shut, Valmont,” Henry said, at the same time Rohan said, “Sir Frederick was giving us an extra lesson in medicine. Adam isn’t hurt; he just forgot to take the bandage off.”
“Is that so?” Valmont asked, and then, without warning, his hand shot out and squeezed Adam’s bandage, hard.
“Ahhhhhhh!” Adam yelled. “I’m dying!”
“Don’t you dare touch him,” Henry said.
“I won’t have to,” Valmont said. “I was just on my way to see Uncle Havelock. I wonder what he’ll think when I tell him you’ve broken into the armory?”
“It’s rather warm these days, isn’t it?” Frankie said suddenly.
Henry shot her a questioning glance, but Frankie merely smiled.
“So?” Valmont asked.
“Warm enough that you’d sleep with the windows open?”
“Maybe,” Valmont acknowledged warily.
“Well,” Frankie said. “Maybe I’m taking a walk around the quadrangle early one morning, and I see a wide open window at just the right height for me to wriggle inside and do terrible, terrible things to whomever I find there, fast asleep.”
Valmont gulped.
“But the window doesn’t need to be open,” Frankie continued with a grin. “I just wiggle my hairpin in that old lock and no one would ever know I’d been there until they woke.”
“You’d get …, ” Valmont began, and then stopped.
“What?” Frankie laughed. “In trouble? Why do you think I’m here, Valmont? Because I’m so much trouble that no school will have me. So think of the worst things that the worst boys ever did back at your baby secondary school, and know that I’ve done those things, and that I could do them to you, and there’s nothing anyone can do to punish me that I haven’t already had done to me a thousand times.”
Valmont glared. “You’re just a silly little girl,” he muttered.
“Even worse for you, then, because you’re scared of me,” Frankie said.
“I’m not scared,” Valmont said fiercely. “I’m just waiting until I can prove it. But I know you lot are up to something illicit, and when I have proof, you’ll be sorry.”
“And you’ll be sleeping in your own pee,” Frankie said with a snort. “All it takes is for me to put your hand into a cup of warm water when you’re asleep.”
“You are a horrible, filthy girl!” Valmont shouted.
The boys playing cricket looked up from their game to see what was going on.
“And your name on the Code of Chivalry is nothing more than an unwelcome stain, Fergus Valmont,” Henry spat. “Let’s go.”
A FRIEND IN THE LIBRARY
If Henry thought his first protocol lesson had been horrible, it was nothing compared to the second. On Tuesday afternoon, Professor Turveydrop made them stand in a long line and practice bowing to men of different stations.
“His Grace, the Duke,” Professor Turveydrop called, and the boys bowed as they would to a duke.
“Good, Mr. Mehta,” Professor Turveydrop cried. “And his lordship, Lord Someone-or-other.”
The boys bowed again, differently.
“Henry Grim!” Professor Turveydrop cried. “Is there a reason you’re bowing like that?”
Henry straightened, feeling his cheeks color.
“Like what, sir?”
“Like a servant bringing in the tea,” Professor Turveydrop said with a dismissive wave of his hand.
The class died with laughter. Only Rohan, Adam, and quiet Edmund managed to keep their faces straight.
“Is something funny?” Professor Turveydrop asked severely.
No, Henry thought. The truth is often uncomfortable, but rarely funny.
“I didn’t realize I was doing it, sir,” Henry said.
“Yes, well, try to practice. You are a knight in training, not a common houseboy. Mr. Valmont, why are you smirking like that?”
“No reason, sir,” Valmont said.
“And now, Sir So-and-so,” Professor Turveydrop prompted.
The boys frowned.
“When faced with another man who has taken the Oath of Chivalry,” Professor Turveydrop explained, “you salute. Watch me.”
Henry floated through the rest of the lesson in an embarrassed sort of trance.
The professor’s word echoed through his head: Why are you bowing like a servant bringing in the tea? followed by the raucous laughter of his classmates.
Henry and the other first years spent that evening in the library, writing an essay for Lord Havelock. Every so often, Theobold would catch Henry’s eye and bow elaborately, pantomiming holding out a serving tray.
With a sigh, Henry began building a little fortress of books around his place at the table, walling himself into his misery.
The library, like everything at Knightley Academy, was far grander than its counterpart at the Midsummer School. The books stretched upward for two stories, requiring both ladders and a wrap-around balcony for access. The ceiling, painted in fresco, was a dome depicting the celestial sphere and the myths of the constellations. Between every three seats at the long tables sat a green reading lamp, and the chairs, although worn from centuries of use, were comfortable.
The silence of the library was punctuated only by the occasional sigh or flipping of a page. The first years bent over their papers, scratching out their essays in careful, neat script.
Suddenly a group of second years, their green-striped ties loosened around their necks, pushed open the library door, joking and talking loudly.
“You’re not serious, Jas,” a big, bespectacled boy said, clapping a hand on his friend’s shoulder.
“Certainly I’m serious,” the boy called Jas boomed. “That’s what they call it.”
“In your dreams,” a shorter, stouter boy said, laughing.
“Not in mine!” Jas winked.
The older boys were seemingly unaware that they’d interrupted the first years, or that there was anyone else in the library at all. They passed by the end of the table where Henry, Adam, and Rohan sat, and the boy called Jas, explaining something with big, sweeping gestures, knocked part of Henry’s book fortress to the floor.
Suddenly the silence seemed to widen. All of the first years stared.
With a sigh, Henry got to his knees and began picking up books.
“Frightfully sorry, there,” the older boy said, stooping down and gathering up two of the books he’d upset. “I got a bit carried away.”
“Not a problem,” Henry said, surprised and pleased that he wasn’t being treated like an outcast first year.
“Anyway, I’m Jasper Hallworth,” the older boy said.
“Henry Grim,” Henry said, and then, before he could help himself, “you’re t
he one with the pipe.”
“Well,” Jasper said, straightening. “I’m not going to ask how you know about that, except to hope that my celebrity has reached even you titchy first years.”
“I’m not titchy,” Henry protested, drawing himself up to his full height. The top of his head reached Jasper’s chin.
“You are; you’re an armrest.”
“And you’re a chimney,” Henry said, “or at least you smoke like one.”
At this, Jasper threw his head back and laughed so loudly that the librarian came over and shushed him.
“You’re all right, Henry Grim,” Jasper said, ruffling Henry’s hair and then taking the spiral stair up to the second level of books.
The other first years went back to their work, as though the conversation between Henry and Jasper had never happened.
But it had, and Henry returned to his essay with a small, secret smile and just a little bit less dread.
***
“Is this going to happen every night?” Rohan asked with a sigh as Frankie tumbled through the window a few hours later.
“I just came to see how Adam’s arm is doing.” Frankie pouted.
“Really, my fair damsel?” Adam asked, grinning over the top of his protocol notes.
“No,” Frankie said, snorting.
“So guess what?” Henry said. He was rereading his essay for Lord Havelock, lying stomach-down on his bed. “Another student spoke to me tonight.”
“You should have seen it,” Adam enthused. “This bloody huge second year toppled Henry’s books and then helped pick them up.”
Frankie shook her head. “You can’t be serious. Come on, Rohan, was it truly that exciting?”
Rohan pressed his lips together and said nothing.
“Rohannnnn,” Frankie whined. “Are you angry with me?”
“I am ignoring you,” Rohan said, “in hopes that you will go away and Lord Havelock won’t expel us.”
“So this is you ignoring me, then?” Frankie queried.
“Yes, it is,” Rohan said, primly picking up a novel from his desk and hiding his amused expression behind it.
“Well, I just came by to see if someone could help with my French.”
“Let’s see it,” Henry said, scooting over on his bed to make room for Frankie.
“You’re joking!” Adam cried. “You never help me with French and I always ask.”
“I never help you precisely because you want me to do it for you,” Henry said. “And besides, Professor Lingua would know. You’re terrible at French.”
“He wouldn’t know I was terrible if you’d done my homework for me from the beginning,” Adam protested.
“Believe me, he would,” Rohan said, turning a page in his book. “And by the way, Henry, if you’re planning for Frankie to stay, she should use Adam’s desk, rather than sit on your bed.”
“But I’m using my desk!” Adam protested.
“So use your bed,” Rohan said, flipping another page in the novel he obviously wasn’t reading.
“Fine,” Adam said sulkily.
Frankie laid an exercise book on Adam’s desk, and Henry scooted his chair and craned his neck to see.
“That,” Frankie said, pointing. “What the devil is that?”
“It’s a tense,” Henry said.
“Why does it look like that?”
“Like what?” Henry asked patiently.
“Like something evil.”
Henry tried not to laugh. “Because the verbs are irregular. Here, like this.” Henry penciled the verb stems and their meanings into the margin of her notebook.
“That’s it?” Frankie asked, wrinkling her nose.
“Well, no, there’s more of them. Just memorize the verb stems, write them on cards or something, and then you won’t think they’re evil.”
“They’ll still be evil,” Frankie grumbled, collecting her things.
“You’re leaving?” Rohan asked cheerfully.
“Er,” Henry said, ignoring the glare Rohan gave him. “Frankie? Could we swap tutoring?”
“Ask Adam to help you with fencing,” she said.
“No … I meant protocol,” Henry said, his face reddening.
“What, Rohan wouldn’t do it?”
Rohan gave up the pretense of reading. “You never asked,” he accused Henry.
“Because I thought you’d say no,” Henry mumbled.
“I wouldn’t have done,” Rohan said, putting down his book. “Frankie and I will help you together. After all, we can’t have a repeat of this morning.”
“What happened this morning?” Frankie asked. “And I haven’t agreed to tutor you.”
“This morning,” Henry said, willing himself not to sound bitter about it, “Professor Turveydrop asked why I was bowing like a servant bringing in the tea.”
“Oh, dear,” Frankie said with a giggle. “When’s the funeral?”
“Sorry?” Henry asked.
“Didn’t you murder him for that?”
“He didn’t mean anything by it. It was just an unfortunate choice of words.”
“Well, stand up,” Frankie said. “Let’s see it.”
Henry stood up.
“Whom am I addressing?” he asked.
“Lady Winter,” Frankie said grandly, and then giggled as Henry bowed. “Oh, Lord, it is like you’re bringing in the tea.”
“Well, how do I fix it?” Henry asked, annoyed.
“First,” Rohan said, “don’t bow so low. You aren’t meant to truly be humble; after all, you’re a knight yourself. Just show respect, not obedience.”
Henry tried again.
“Better,” Frankie said. “Maybe try it a bit slower.”
Henry went again.
“That’s loads better!” Frankie said.
Henry sighed with relief.
“Yeah, now you bow like a serving woman bringing in the newspaper,” Adam joked.
Henry picked up his pillow and threw it at Adam.
“Hey! I’m injured, so watch it!” Adam protested.
THE MYSTERIOUS LETTERS
Over the next few weeks, Frankie regularly climbed through the boys’ window. Her French improved, and Professor Turveydrop stopped singling out Henry in protocol. Occasionally, Edmund Merrill sat near Henry, Adam, and Rohan’s end of the breakfast table and smiled shyly. All would have been going very well indeed if not for the letters Henry and his friends began to receive.
The first letter, addressed to Henry, arrived five days after the fuss in the library with Jasper and the books. Upon first glance, the envelope did not appear ominous. In fact, it appeared perfectly ordinary, a plain white rectangle, just another piece of post from the stack that Luther, the first-year monitor, handed out at the beginning of breakfast.
“Who’s that from?” Adam asked, leaning over Henry’s shoulder for a better look.
“Dunno,” Henry said, shrugging. He couldn’t think of anyone who would send him a letter. Maybe Professor Stratford, but that seemed unlikely. Or perhaps it was one of Frankie’s jokes.
In any case, there were no clues on the envelope. Just his name and Knightley Academy, Avel-on-t’Hems, for address. Henry ripped open the envelope.
It was empty.
Or so he thought at first.
At least, there was no letter inside.
But there, stuck to the side, was a tiny, grubby newspaper clipping, small enough to fit in the palm of his hand.
Henry removed the clipping, smoothed it onto his napkin, and frowned.
“What?” Adam asked petulantly. “What’s it say?”
“Rubbish,” Henry said, crumpling the scrap of newspaper and stuffing it into his jacket pocket.
“I want to read it,” Adam whined.
“Trust me, you don’t,” Henry said.
During that afternoon’s hour free, Henry went into the most out-of-the-way toilets—the one in the tower by Lord Havelock’s classroom—and reread the article scrap:
in that t
iny Nordlandic prefecture, he found two dozen women and children living in squalor in a tiny basement room of an old schoolhouse, without heat or running water. According to High Inspector Dimit Yascherov of the Nordlandic Policing Agency, and head of Partisan School, the women and children were half frozen, and nearly all suffered from terrible dysentery, and preparations were immediately made for transport to a nearby hospital. Despite the inspector’s claims, the hospital holds no records of treating any women or children who match the description. It has been nine days since the inspector uncovered the illegally operating girls’ school from an anonymous tip, and as of yet, no bodies have been found. In the Nordlands, it is an offense punishable by three years’ hard labor to
Henry shredded the scrap of newspaper into the toilet. Who would send him this? And why?
But then, there was no reason to be upset, Henry reasoned. It was just a joke, a scrap from some gossip magazine whose articles were more serious than most. Or maybe it was from that kitchen maid Liza, who was so keen on conspiracy theories that she hadn’t realized how creepy it would feel to receive it.
Henry had never paid much attention to the post, although he knew sort of hazily that Rohan was always getting letters from home, and once or twice, Adam had received a letter from his sisters that their mother had obviously forced them to write. But when the next morning’s post was distributed, a letter came for Adam.
“My mum is always forcing them to write …, ” Adam complained, tearing open the envelope. “Oi! There’s nothing in here but a scrap of newsprint.”
“Don’t read it,” Henry said darkly. “I’d expect it’s the same as what I got yesterday.”
“Oh, you mean if I read this, I’ll know exactly what was in that mysterious letter you’ve been refusing to talk about?” Adam asked.
“Well, now I’m feeling left out,” Rohan said.
“Trust me, you shouldn’t,” Henry said, quickly telling his friends about the oddly chilling news scrap he’d received.
“That’s awful, mate,” Adam said, smoothing out his piece of newspaper. “Maybe there was a nice wart removal cream advertisement on the back of yours, offering a discount, and that’s what someone meant to send.”
“Right, because my warts are ever so painful these days,” Henry said dryly.
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