“You busy?” Adam called, oblivious as usual.
Rohan winced at the impropriety. “Adam,” he said, grabbing hold of his friend’s sleeve, “I think she’s a bit occupied at the moment.”
“It seems you have visitors,” a rather severe woman’s voice called from inside the receiving room. “Invite them inside, Francesca. I would so enjoy meeting them.”
Frankie, looking as though she’d rather do anything but, gave a small curtsy.
“Yes, Grandmother.”
Grandmother? Henry, Adam, and Rohan exchanged a look of horror as Frankie stomped toward them.
“Do not embarrass me,” she hissed. “Now give Ellen your coats and come on.”
Shedding their coats into the maid’s arms, the boys followed Frankie into the receiving room.
A sterling silver tea set caught the light from a blazing fire, casting a cheery warmth around the lavishly decorated room. It would have been a welcoming little parlor indeed if not for the formidable gray-haired woman who glared at them from a high-backed chair.
“Grandmother Winter,” Frankie said meekly, “may I present Adam Beckerman, Henry Grim, and Rohan Mehta.”
“Pleased to meet you, Lady Winter,” the boys mumbled, bowing.
“You,” Grandmother Winter said, addressing Rohan. “How’s your father?”
“His grace is very well, madam,” Rohan said. “Shall I give him your regards when I see him next?”
“You shall,” she said, smoothing her withered hands across the lap of her black lace dress. “Please, sit. Don’t let my presence interrupt what is surely a routine visit.”
Henry exchanged a horrified look with Rohan. This was extremely bad.
“May I offer you some tea and biscuits?” Frankie asked stiffly.
“No, thank you,” Henry said.
“Tea, please,” Adam said, and Henry elbowed him.
“Owww!” Adam cried, clapping a hand to his side. “I’m injured, did you forget?”
“Injured?” Frankie asked with a frown.
“Theobold ran me through with a sword yesterday,” Adam said casually. “The blunt tip had been removed.”
“But that’s awful!” Frankie said, putting a hand over her mouth. “I’m so sorry to hear that you’re not well, Mr. Beckerman.”
Adam’s lips twitched, as though he was trying very hard not to smile at Frankie’s behavior.
Henry didn’t find it funny at all. Now he knew exactly what his friends had meant the first week of school when they’d told him that you couldn’t visit girls.
“That’s not the half of it,” Henry said. “Someone’s just broken into our room and taken a family heirloom of Adam’s. We were on our way to speak to your father about it.”
Frankie again expressed her regret and offered Adam the sugar bowl.
“Mr. … Grim, was it?” Grandmother Winter said.
“Yes, ma’am?”
“Can you please explain the reason why you came by the house rather than going to my son’s—the headmaster’s—office about this matter?”
Henry gulped. “We—I mean, I—well, you see, we wanted to consult Frank— er, Francesca first.”
“That’s rather modern of you, Mr. Grim,” Grand-mother Winter said with a cold smile. “I had not realized that men training to become knights were prone to consulting fifteen-year-old girls about their personal affairs.”
“Thank you, madam?” he managed. It came out sounding like a question.
“That wasn’t a compliment,” Grandmother Winter snapped.
“No, ma’am,” Henry said.
“Or perhaps I have mistaken modernity for social ignorance,” Grandmother Winter continued. “I have often attended galas with the duke of Holchester and his family, yet I cannot fathom having previously met anyone with the surname Grim.”
Henry wished—suddenly, vehemently—that they had disturbed Lord Havelock with this matter instead.
“I am orphaned, madam,” Henry said.
“So is Mr. Mehta,” Grandmother Winter said with an expressive wave of her arm.
“I was never adopted,” Henry said.
“I see.” Grandmother Winter’s lips puckered as though she had just discovered that the lemon tarts had been baked without sugar.
“Mr. Grim has been helping me with my French,” Frankie said.
“Is that so?” Grandmother Winter asked.
“Yes, madam. I previously studied under Professor Stratford as well.”
“And how much is Francesca paying you for these lessons?” Grandmother Winter asked.
“Nothing, madam,” Henry said, his cheeks burning.
“We really ought to be going,” Rohan said with an apologetic smile.
“Nonsense, Mr. Mehta,” Grandmother Winter said. “I wouldn’t dream of your leaving without consulting Francesca about the theft of this family heirloom.”
“Yes, madam,” Rohan replied. “Well, Miss Winter, have you an opinion on the matter?”
Frankie blinked her wide blue eyes as though she hadn’t a thought in her head. She giggled and glanced down demurely.
“Perhaps you should consult my father,” she said. “He is such a clever man and I know how dear this object must have been to Mr. Beckerman. I do so hope this was all a misunderstanding and there is another explanation besides theft.”
Henry tried very hard not to register any surprise as Frankie secretly told them what she really thought. “Thank you for your opinion,” he said.
Frankie twirled a curl around one finger and blushed sweetly.
“Yes, and thank you for the visit,” Grandmother Winter said, standing up.
The boys scrambled to their feet.
“Oh, and Mr. Grim?” Grandmother Winter asked. “J’espere que vous etes un bon instructeur.”
“Moi aussi, madam, mais le question n’est pas si je suis un bon instructeur mais si Francesca est une bonne etudiante.”
Grandmother Winter inclined her head slightly and gave Henry a brief hint of a smile.
“You speak very pretty French, Mr. Grim. That is all.”
THE CONSEQUENCES OF FAILURE
Oh, you speak such pretty French,’ ” Adam mocked as they walked toward the thatch cottage where Headmaster Winter kept his office.
“Do shut up, Adam,” Henry snapped.
“Yes, please do,” Rohan echoed. “You’ve caused enough trouble as it is.”
“What did I do?” Adam pouted.
“ ‘Frankie, you busy?’ ” Henry mocked.
“Oh, that,” Adam said, reddening.
The headmaster’s office, when they reached it, was at the end of an imposing corridor lined with portraits of past headmasters. A door twice as tall as could reasonably be expected to fit the space loomed at the end, bearing a shiny plaque: office of the grand chevalier lord anthony winter, headmaster of knightley academy.
Henry nervously raised a fist and knocked.
“Yes?” a cross voice called from inside.
“Headmaster Winter?” Henry called back. “We’d like to report a theft.”
The door opened, and there was Headmaster Winter, his waistcoat covered in biscuit crumbs, wearing a pair of bedroom slippers with his rumpled pin-striped trousers.
“No, don’t tell me your names. Let me guess,” the headmaster said, surveying the three students. “Adam Beckerman, Henry Grim, and Rohan Mehta. Am I right?”
“Yes, sir,” the boys said, surprised that the headmaster knew their names.
“Well, come inside.”
Headmaster Winter’s office was rather shocking; it had once been grand, that much was clear from the damask wallpaper and marble mantelpiece, but the grandness had been crowded out by rumpled newspapers, a half-eaten tea service long gone cold, a pile of maps, a hat rack hung with a dozen brightly colored umbrellas, and a windowsill jammed with potted plants that looked to be gasping for their last breath.
Thankfully, there was a squashy sofa facing the headmaster’s desk, and t
he boys collapsed into it at Headmaster Winter’s invitation.
“A theft, you say?” the headmaster asked with a frown. “And you’ve consulted your head of year … Lord Havelock?”
“Not quite,” Henry admitted. “We didn’t want to bother him.”
“I see,” the headmaster said, eyes twinkling as though he guessed that Henry and his friends were terrified of their head of year. “And the theft occurred just minutes ago, I am assuming, after which you rushed straight here?”
“Erm, not exactly,” Adam said.
Headmaster Winter stared at them expectantly.
Henry sighed. “We went by your house first and had, er, tea.”
Headmaster Winter groaned.
“We didn’t mean to,” Henry hastily assured him. “The maid let us in thinking we were looking for Professor Stratford … and then it was too late.”
“Yes, I’d rather suspect it would be,” the headmaster said as though enjoying a private joke.
“This is rather serious, sir,” Rohan said. “Our room has been burgled.”
They told Headmaster Winter all about it. How the drawers had been rifled through and the mattresses moved. How nothing was missing besides Adam’s necklace.
“Are you often the target of such misdeeds?” Headmaster Winter asked.
It would have been so easy to tell the headmaster everything. How it had all started with the newspaper clippings in the morning post, how they didn’t know why this was happening or who was doing it. How Adam’s necklace was just the most recent problem, and far from their only grievance.
But telling is never easy, especially to teachers. And so, through some unspoken agreement, all three boys shook their heads.
“No, sir,” said Henry.
“Thank you for alerting me to the problem,” the headmaster said. “I shall inform the teachers and staff that we are having an issue with theft, and I shall make it a point to speak out on this matter at chapel in the morning. But hadn’t you boys be washing up for supper?”
“Yes, sir,” they chorused, struggling to get up from the squashy sofa.
Henry gave Adam a hand, and Adam shot him a grateful look.
“Oh, and boys?” the headmaster called as they were nearly out the door.
“Yes, sir?” Henry said.
“My daughter tells me that the four of you are friends.”
Henry, Adam, and Rohan exchanged a look of horror.
“Hopefully you can be a good influence on Francesca, if an unconventional one. But it’s best if you keep this information from my mother,” Headmaster Winter said with a conspiratorial wink.
“It’s too late for that, sir,” Henry said miserably.
True to his word, Headmaster Winter addressed the students at chapel the next morning. Theft not only showed that you coveted your neighbor’s property, but it went against everything knighthood stood for. “The Code of Chivalry is not used to send scrambled messages,” Headmaster Winter concluded, “and as such, there is no reason to break it.”
Frankie caught up with the boys after chapel.
“Why, hello, Miss Winter,” Rohan said blandly.
“Oh, shove it, Rohan.” Frankie scowled. “Ever since my grandmother arrived she’s been controlling my life. I can hardly get out of her sight.”
“Francesca,” Grandmother Winter trilled as she made her way toward the boys’ pew. She wore a ridiculous hat covered in plumes, a hat far too grand for morning chapel.
“Ah, there you are, talking to the duke’s son,” Grandmother Winter said.
Rohan’s cheeks colored.
“Hello, madam.”
“Yes, hello, ma’am,” Henry said, nudging Adam, who had fallen asleep in the pew. Adam snorted but didn’t awaken.
“Come, Francesca,” Grandmother Winter said. “I have called for tea and biscuits to be sent to my rooms. You may keep me company while you work on your embroidery.”
Frankie, making sure that her grandmother wasn’t watching, pulled a horrible face. “Yes, Grandmother.”
At breakfast, Adam couldn’t stop mocking Rohan.
“Oh, it’s the duke’s son,” he said. “What a lovely match for our sweet little Francesca.”
“Stow it, Adam,” Rohan said sourly, picking at his scone. He hadn’t touched the blueberry muffins all week. “I can’t help that she knows my family.”
“Maybe if you started courting Frankie, we could see her more often,” Adam said.
“Would you stop?” Rohan asked. “I’m not courting anybody. We’re fourteen.”
“And besides,” Henry said with a lopsided grin, “we’re not allowed to visit girls.”
After lessons, Henry, Adam, and Rohan turned up once more at the doorstep of the headmaster’s house.
“You again,” Ellen clucked.
“We’re here to see Professor Stratford,” Henry said. “Truly, we are.”
“I’ll jest go an’ check with him, shall I?” she asked, shutting the door in their faces.
Minutes later, after Henry had begun to suspect that she might not return, Ellen opened the door and ushered them inside.
“He says he’ll see you.”
Ellen led the boys through a large and lavish sitting room, which opened onto an orangery where Frankie stood in a white smock, scowling as she watercolored a vase of roses.
Grandmother Winter sat in a wingback chair, watching.
Hurrying the boys past Frankie, the maid led them up a back staircase, through a long hallway, and to the door of Professor Stratford’s study.
“Here we are,” she said, bobbing a curtsy and scurrying back down the stairs.
Suddenly, Henry realized something. “She took us through the servants’ staircase,” he said.
Rohan frowned.
“I can’t imagine why,” said Adam.
Henry, thinking of Frankie’s dour grandmother, rather suspected he could venture a guess.
“Is that Henry?” Professor Stratford cried, opening the door to his cozy, book-strewn study with a broad grin. “Good to see you again, Adam! And this must be the infamous Rohan.”
“Yes, sir,” Rohan said with a slight bow.
“I won’t stand for even the smallest whiff of formality,” Professor Stratford said with a dismissive wave. “Now get inside and tell me what’s going on with this thieving rumor.”
“It isn’t a rumor,” Henry said.
“I didn’t think it was,” Professor Stratford said seriously, chewing on the corner of his mustache as he settled back into his chair. “And am I also correct in suspecting that this isn’t the first thing to happen to the three of you?”
“How’d you know that?” Adam asked with surprise.
“Francesca told me about Henry’s being locked into the library overnight.”
“Right, that,” Henry said. It seemed like ages ago, what with Rohan’s allergic reaction, Adam’s being stabbed with the sword, and the burglary of their room.
“There isn’t more?” Professor Stratford asked, surprised.
With a sigh, Henry began to recount the events of the past two weeks.
“You’re right,” Professor Stratford said, pressing his fingertips to his temples. “It’s not Valmont.”
“But if it isn’t Valmont,” Rohan said, “we can’t figure out anyone else with a vendetta against all three of us.”
“I take it things are going better for you three socially?” Professor Stratford asked.
Henry nodded. “It’s really only Valmont and Theobold who are still bothering us. Everyone else has pretty much dropped it. And Edmund, one of the boys in our year, is quite friendly.”
“That’s wonderful,” the professor said, grinning.
Henry suddenly felt guilty for how infrequently he had visited his former tutor.
“So who do you think is behind everything, then?” asked Adam.
Professor Stratford shrugged. “I’m afraid I don’t know, although I’d love to have the answer to this one. But I can
certainly guess why.”
“Really, sir?” Rohan asked curiously.
“I’ve heard a rumor,” Professor Stratford said, putting up a hand to discourage the boys from interrupting, “that your performance in lessons had been declining.”
“Lord Havelock,” Adam moaned, interrupting anyway.
“Not just Lord Havelock,” the professor said. “And I wonder if you boys know what is at stake if your marks aren’t high?”
Henry frowned. He was doing as well as could be expected in Lord Havelock’s class; his marks had greatly improved in protocol; languages, medicine, and ethics were a breeze; and he’d recently been promoted in fencing. Adam, though, was struggling. And Rohan had never been strong in Havelock’s class or in languages.
“What do you mean?” Henry asked.
“When Headmaster Winter opened the exam to commoners,” Professor Stratford continued, “many of the school trustees were unhappy. They voiced concern that perhaps they had made a mistake in selecting the new headmaster. But they agreed to withhold judgment until they saw how the common students performed once admitted to the academy.”
Henry stared at the professor in shock. He hadn’t known, but he should have guessed. “And if we perform poorly?” he asked.
“If any of you gives the board of trustees any reason for doubt, academic or otherwise, then they may remove Headmaster Winter from his post. The exam would go back to the way it was, and you would no longer be permitted to stay here as students.”
The boys exchanged a look of horror.
Not permitted to stay at Knightley? Henry’s heart raced at the thought. At the moment, he was doing well at lessons, but Henry couldn’t forget how close he had come to failing his quarter-term essay for Lord Havelock—how easily everything could shift toward the worst. What would become of him if he got kicked out? Certainly no other fancy school would want him—a disgraced orphan, recently given the boot from Knightley as a failed social experiment.
But it wasn’t just about what would become of him—the fate of Knightley Academy was at stake. If Henry and his friends failed, no other common boys would have a chance at becoming knights, and it would be their fault—his fault.
Suddenly, Henry felt sick.
Everything that had been happening to them—the threatening letters, the lost essay, being locked in the library, the nuts in the muffin, the unblunted sword, the burglary—was designed to make them fail.
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