“Got locked in,” Henry said, picking up his satchel.
“Not overnight?” she asked, horrified.
“Overnight,” Henry said. “So thank you for coming along to unlock the door.”
“I only come because Mary said she ’eard rattlin’ and howlin’ las’ night and the library was prob’ly haunted.”
“That was me,” Henry said, and then, with a sinking feeling, asked, “so what time is this door usually unlocked, then?”
“Jus’ before lunch,” Liza said.
“I have to wash up before chapel,” Henry said. “You can tell Mary the library isn’t haunted.”
And before his expression could betray him, he slipped out the door and back to the first-year corridor.
When Henry got back to his room, Adam was fastening his tie while Rohan looked on and tapped his foot impatiently.
“Where were you?” Adam asked.
“The library.”
“All night?” Rohan asked, raising an eyebrow.
“I was locked in overnight,” Henry said miserably, changing into his spare uniform with no time to wash up.
Rohan shot Henry a tortured look.
“Chapel’s in five minutes, and you tell us this now?”
“Sorry,” Henry said. “Go on ahead. I’ll tell you about it at breakfast.”
Adam and Rohan exchanged a look.
“Go,” Henry said.
At breakfast, Rohan was horrified.
“We should have waited up for you,” he said. “We should have known something was wrong.”
“Well, we did think it was strange when you weren’t there in the morning,” Adam amended. “But you wake up so early sometimes, I figured you’d gone back to the library to finish your essay.”
“It’s fine, honestly,” Henry said.
It was touching that his friends were so concerned, but the worst that could have happened hadn’t—he hadn’t missed Lord Havelock’s class and lost his chance to hand in the new essay.
And anyway, Henry hadn’t mentioned his suspicion that he’d been locked in on purpose, thanks to one Fergus Valmont. It sounded silly, and besides, he didn’t want to put ideas into Adam’s head, since Adam was so prone to dramatics.
“Frankie’s upset with you, did I mention?” Adam said.
“Why?” Henry asked, gulping coffee.
“She had to memorize some awful poem in French last night and wanted you to correct her pronunciation.”
“I’ll tell her I’m sorry that I was too busy being locked inside the library overnight,” Henry muttered, and Rohan began to cough.
“You all right?” Adam asked.
Rohan shook his head.
Henry put down his coffee, and even Edmund looked up from his copy of the morning news.
Henry grabbed for the pitcher of water and hastily poured Rohan a glass, splashing water onto the tablecloth. Rohan gulped at the water, but his face had turned purple.
“Nuts,” he wheezed.
“Nuts?” Adam asked, raising an eyebrow.
Rohan drew in a tortured breath and indicated the muffin he’d been eating. It looked like ordinary blueberry—the same thing Rohan always had for breakfast—but sure enough, it was dotted with finely chopped nuts.
“You’re allergic to nuts?” Henry asked.
Rohan nodded.
Henry shot Adam a look and they helped Rohan out of his seat.
“Want me to come?” Edmund asked.
“No, thanks,” Henry said. “We’re just taking him to the sick matron. But could you take my satchel to military history and give Lord Havelock my essay?”
“Of course,” Edmund said. “I’ll tell him what’s happened.”
Henry glanced at the High Table. Lord Havelock stared sourly down at them, watching as Henry and Adam dragged Rohan to see the sick matron.
“There’s never nuts in the blueberry muffins,” Henry told Adam after first lesson, as they ran toward the sick bay to check on Rohan before medicine.
“I know. It’s really strange,” Adam said.
“Strange how?” Henry asked. “Clearly Valmont did this.”
“But how?” Adam asked.
“He could have paid off the cook,” Henry said, and then affected Valmont’s nasty drawl. “ ‘Oh, I do wish there were nuts in the blueberry muffins, like there are in all the best city restaurants.’ ”
“But how would he have known that Rohan was allergic?” Adam asked. “I mean, we didn’t even know. It must have been a coincidence.”
But Henry wasn’t so sure.
They’d reached the sick bay, and the matron, a severe old woman with a hairy mole on the exact center of her chin, glared at them from beneath her nurse’s cap.
“You’re supposed to be in class,” she said witheringly, hands on her wide hips.
“We know, ma’am,” Henry said. “We’ve only just come to check on our friend.”
“He’s resting,” she said, as though they’d insulted her by asking. “No visitors. Go back to class.”
“Yes, ma’am. Sorry,” Henry said, backing down the hallway.
“I … have … an idea,” Adam panted as they sprinted toward medicine.
“What?”
“Let’s fix up … let’s fix up Sick Matron with Lord Ha-Havelock.”
Henry laughed until his sides hurt.
Most of the time he wanted to give Adam a good smack, but sometimes Adam was the only one who made life at Knightley bearable.
Rohan missed the rest of that day’s classes. He showed up for supper, though—a little pale, but smiling.
“Did I miss anything extraordinary?” he asked, pouring himself a glass of cider.
“Just a scintillating lecture on the Reformation,” Adam said. “Why didn’t you tell us that you’re allergic to nuts?”
Rohan shrugged.
“Well, you’re all right now,” Henry said, even though Rohan didn’t look all right at all. There were purplish bruises under his eyes, and his hand trembled as he lifted his cup of cider to take a tiny sip.
“Good as new,” Rohan said, nibbling at the edge of a roasted potato.
Rohan kept up the facade of being recovered for the next hour, until he fell asleep directly after supper, fully dressed, on top of his bed.
“Should we wake him?” Adam asked.
Henry shook his head.
“He’s really ill, Adam. I bet he lied to the sick matron to release him.”
“Well, he did look a bit peaky at supper,” Adam said.
There was a scratch at their window. Henry pushed it open.
“How’s Rohan?” Frankie asked, propping her chin on the windowsill.
“Asleep,” Henry whispered. “Meet you in the library?”
Five minutes later, they’d claimed the study room that Henry had been locked inside the night before.
With a small shudder, Henry left the door open a crack.
“Well, what’s going on?” Frankie asked. “You two dragged Rohan out of breakfast this morning as though he was dying, and then he shows up at supper looking like death warmed up.”
“He’s allergic to nuts,” Henry said.
“So why did he eat them?” Frankie asked.
“It seems Cook created a new dish this morning: the blueberry and nut muffin.”
Frankie winced. “Bad luck,” she said. “And speaking of, I made Professor Stratford cringe with my poetry pronunciation this afternoon. Where were you last night?”
“Here,” Henry said.
“He was locked in,” Adam added.
“All night?” Frankie asked.
Henry nodded. “They should do a plaque. ‘This room is the historic site where Henry Grim was forced to spend the night,’ ” he said.
None of them smiled at the joke.
“This is really bad,” Frankie said. “The point of plastering Valmont’s textbook shut was to put an end to this sort of thing.”
“Well, that was the point,” Henry said, �
��but clearly it didn’t work and hasn’t for some time. I just want to know how he managed it.”
“We could ask Liza,” Adam said.
“Good idea,” said Frankie.
But it was late, and unless they wanted to break curfew, asking Liza would have to wait.
A DANGEROUS SWORD
The next afternoon in fencing, Henry could hardly concentrate on their form exercise of tossing a small, bean-filled bag back and forth, catching it in a lunge position.
He’d partnered with Rohan, who was definitely off form. His movements were sluggish, and one time, when he dropped the bag, he’d rested a moment on the floor when he stooped to retrieve it, as though exhausted by the warm-up.
“Are you certain you’re feeling all right?” Henry asked as the bag landed a good meter short of his outstretched hand.
“Fine,” Rohan said tensely. “It’s just difficult with your being left-handed.”
“Mr. Mehta! Mr. Grim! Let’s have some energy!” the fencing master cried.
“Yes, sir,” Henry said, tossing the bag toward Rohan.
Rohan, teeth gritted, stepped into a spectacular lunge and made the catch.
“Watch that front leg, Mehta,” the fencing master said, walking over. “It needs to be in line with your sword arm, not diagonal. Go again, without the bag.”
Rohan gamely took his stance and lunged again.
“Good. Again!” the fencing master cried.
Rohan went again. His face was ashen and sweat trickled down his temples.
“Again!” called the fencing master.
“Sir,” Henry said, “Rohan isn’t well.”
“Is that so, Mr. Mehta?” the fencing master asked.
Rohan looked for a moment as though he was going to deny it. But Henry gave him a stern glare and Rohan nodded.
“Yes, sir. Allergic reaction. I spent yesterday in the sick bay.”
“Switch into the beginners for today,” the fencing master said. “Grim can take your place in the intermediates until you’re recovered, and after that, we’ll see. I was going to promote him soon, anyway.”
“Yes, sir,” Henry said, flushing with pride.
“Yes, sir,” Rohan said weakly, putting his hands on his knees to catch his breath from the lunges.
Adam shot Henry a questioning glance when the class divided into skill levels and Henry went off with the intermediates.
“What’s going on?” Adam asked, taking his usual sword from where they were stowed in the gear cubbies.
“I’ve been promoted.”
“Well, congratulations, mate.”
“Thanks,” Henry said, turning around so Adam could help fasten his kit.
“What’s this?” Valmont asked, putting on his glove. “Where’s Indian boy?”
“That’s rude,” Henry said. “And he’s ill. I trust you know why.”
“Living with you would make anyone ill, servant boy,” Valmont said.
“Oh, how terribly clever,” Henry retorted.
“Intermediates,” the fencing master called. “Partner up! First to three hits rotates to challenge the winner of the pair two over.”
Henry looked at Adam. “Fancy a bout?” he asked.
“I’ll beat you with my eyes closed, you know,” Adam said cheerfully.
“Better you than Valmont.” Henry said darkly. “He’d beat me with my back turned.”
Adam laughed. “Fair enough.”
With their masks on, the intermediates lined up at the far end of the room.
Henry could see the beginners at the other end doing advance-retreat exercises.
You’ve been promoted, he thought, willing himself to feel happy. But all he felt was nervous.
With a salute, Henry settled into his fencing crouch and hoped Adam wouldn’t make him look too horrible.
Adam shot forward, sword outstretched, and Henry approached carefully. He was a cautious fencer, he’d discovered recently, always thinking and strategizing, always looking for an opening rather than taking his chances. Adam was just the opposite.
So fast that Henry could hardly believe it, Adam’s sword shot out.
Henry riposted in retreat, and then, sensing an opening, lowered his back arm to signal attack and lunged.
“Off target, mate,” Adam called, his voice muffled by the mesh visor.
He was right. Henry had struck Adam at the collarbone.
“Sorry,” Henry said, and they resumed the bout.
They finished 3–1 Adam, and the only surprise was that Henry had managed to land a hit at all. Adam was easily one of the top three fencers in their year.
The pair two over was finishing as well. With their gear on, it was difficult to tell their classmates apart, but Henry had no trouble realizing that it was Valmont and Theobold they’d be facing.
“Who won?” Henry asked, walking over.
“Not you, obviously,” Valmont said, sounding eerily like his uncle.
“No,” Henry said.
“Well, it was three-oh, my victory,” Valmont drawled, “but I have a proposal. I’d rather fence you than Jewish boy.”
“Would you stop with the names?” Henry asked. “It’s rude.”
“So what do you say? You and me, Beckerman and Theobold.”
“You’re on,” Henry said, dashing back over to Adam to let him know what was happening.
“You’re joking,” Adam said.
“You don’t want to?” Henry asked.
“No, I do. Theobold’s rubbish. I’d love to slaughter him.”
It was settled.
Henry took his place across from Valmont, his heart clamoring crazily. He didn’t expect to win. But maybe he could land a hit and wipe that awful smirk off Valmont’s face, repay him for all those horrible acts of the past week …
Valmont flicked his wrist slightly in the most pathetic salute Henry had ever seen. Henry returned the wrist-flick-as-salute and settled his stance.
Their swords clashed, and Henry disengaged to the outside, pressing his left-hander’s advantage.
Valmont growled beneath his mask and struck a hit that landed off target. Henry used the outside angle and glanced a small blow off Valmont’s chest.
“Hit,” he called.
“I didn’t feel anything,” Valmont said.
“It was a hit,” Henry insisted.
“Liar,” Valmont hissed.
“You’re the liar,” Henry retorted. “Fine. It isn’t worth the aggravation. Let’s go again.”
Valmont adjusted his grip, and Henry tried to slow his breathing. It had been a hit.
Valmont rushed forward, looking for an opening, the point of his sword circling. Henry focused as well. The world slowed until it was just this bout, just his hand in its suede glove with the blunt-tipped foil, and Valmont’s white cotton target zone.
And there! Henry’s back arm went down in signal, and he drove the foil forward, scoring an undeniable hit.
“Hit,” Henry called tersely. “One-zero.”
Valmont said nothing, only took his stance and rushed forward so quickly that Henry could barely react before he’d been struck on the rib cage.
“Hit! One-one,” Valmont called.
And then Adam screamed.
Henry turned.
Theobold stood there, his mouth open in horror, the tip of his foil strangely wet.
No, not wet.
Covered with blood.
Adam’s hand clutched at his side and then came away. There was a neat hole in his cotton vest, ringed red with blood.
“I’m dying,” Adam accused, his voice muffled by the visor.
Everyone had stopped.
Henry threw down his sword and rushed over, helping Adam into a sitting position on the floor. Theobold just stood there, staring down at Adam in shock.
“It wasn’t blunted,” Theobold mumbled, as though in disbelief.
Henry took off Adam’s mask, revealing Adam’s face to be ghostly pale, his dark curls sticking to
his soaked forehead.
“How deep is it?” Henry asked.
“Not so bad,” Adam said weakly, trying to move his hand away to give Henry a look.
“Keep the pressure on,” Henry snapped.
The fencing master had reached them. “What’s happened?” he asked.
“Theobold’s weapon wasn’t blunted,” Henry said.
“Take him to the sick matron,” the fencing master told Henry and Valmont.
Henry stared at Valmont in horror.
Theobold had lost the first bout against Valmont. He hadn’t even scored a hit. In all rights, Theobold was supposed to fence Henry. But Valmont had switched it. First the letters, then the library, then the nuts in the muffin, and now the unblunted sword. It kept getting worse.
“Yes, sir,” Henry told the fencing master a beat too late. He helped Adam to his feet. “You helping or not?” Henry snarled at Valmont.
Valmont shook his head slightly, as though clearing it. “If I have to,” he said, hoisting up Adam’s other side.
Slowly, they made their way to the sick bay.
“You again!” the matron said, frowning at Henry, but then she saw Adam and her face wrinkled with concern. “Och, you poor dearie! What’s happened to you?”
“My number’s up,” Adam said weakly, wincing as Henry helped him onto a cot.
“Your number’s not up,” Henry said, and then realized Valmont was still there, watching silently.
“We don’t need you anymore,” Henry said. “Go back to fencing.”
Without a word, Valmont left.
“That was supposed to be me,” Henry whispered half to himself, sitting down in an armchair by the cot.
The matron was peeling off Adam’s fencing gear.
“There now,” she clucked when she saw the wound. “Just a flesh wound, my love. Just flesh.”
“I’m staying with him,” Henry said, daring the sick matron to disagree.
“Better ways to clear one’s guilt,” she mumbled.
“I didn’t do this,” Henry protested. “I’m his friend.”
And I’m supposed to be there, in his place, Henry thought.
“I can’t believe I let him score a hit,” Adam said, wincing as the sick matron kneaded the skin near his cut.
“Yeah, what was that?” Henry joked. “Theobold’s a worse fencer than I am.”
KNIGHTLEY ACADEMY Page 14