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, bu
t 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.
It was sabotage after all. The warnings in those letters hadn't just been empty threats.
"Thank you for telling us," Henry said.
The professor's expression softened. "Oh, Henry," he said, as though they were back at the Midsummer School and once again Cook had refused Henry his supper for no specific offense.
"Really," Henry stubbornly insisted. "We'll do better. We have to. We can't give whoever is doing these things the satisfaction."
"I can call for some tea and biscuits, if you'd like," Professor Stratford said kindly.
"No, thank you," Adam said, and Henry stared at him in surprise. "We should be going."
"Lovely to meet you," Rohan mumbled.
Through an unspoken agreement, they took the servants' staircase down and didn't stop when they passed Frankie on their way out.
THE INTER-SCHOOL TOURNAMENT
Henry stayed behind after medicine the next day, telling his friends to save him a sandwich.
"Is there something I can do for you, Mr. Grim?" Sir Frederick asked, frowning as he rolled up his anatomy charts and fastened them shut.
"I was hoping you might have a moment to talk, sir?"
"Of course."
"Well," Henry said, fidgeting with the strap on his satchel, "I was wondering if you knew ... back when I took the Knightley Exam ... if you knew what was at stake?"
Sir Frederick finished with a chart and frowned at Henry. "However do you mean?"
"I was wondering if you knew what would hap- pen ... if I failed."
"What are you failing?" Sir Frederick asked, surprised.
"Nothing. I just mean, back when you fought with Headmaster Hathaway at the Midsummer School to let me come to Knightley, if it had occurred to you that I might fail, say, languages, would you have known what was at stake?"
An odd look crossed Sir Frederick's face.
"An experiment," the medicine master said, "always begins with a prediction of what the results might be. I predicted that you would excel."
"But if you had predicted wrong," Henry pressed.
"Then my hypothesis would be proven false."
Henry sighed.
"I know," Henry said softly, "that Headmaster Winter's job is dependent on mine and my friends' success."
"How do you know that?" Sir Frederick asked, raising an eyebrow.
"The same way I know that if one of us does poorly, the exam might be closed to all common-born boys in the future."
"That's just speculation," Sir Frederick said, picking up an armload of charts. "And furthermore, in life, unlike in science, whatever happens is usually for the common good."
Henry frowned, but Sir Frederick ruffled Henry's hair and told him not to worry.
"The common good, not the common bad, prevails. You'll see, my boy. Now run along after your friends. I have to set up for the second years' practical exam."
When Henry joined his friends, the dining hall was echoing with loud, boisterous conversations that all sounded to be about the same thing, from the small bits that Henry overheard.
"--the tournament, I've heard."
"--event are you going to do?"
"--defending champion in history quiz."
"--Partisan always comes out on top in fencing."
"What's going on?" Henry asked, sitting down across from his friends.
"You missed the announcement," Edmund said, sliding over to join them. "They've set the date for the Inter-School Tournament."
"For the what?" Henry asked.
"The annual competition," said Edmund, who always knew everything because of his older brother, "between Knightley and our rival school, Partisan."
"It's supposed to be some sort of skills contest," Rohan put in. "History quiz teams, fencing bouts, model treaty dispute sessions. But it's mostly for the older students, anyway."
"So when is it?" Henry asked.
"Next weekend," Edmund said. "We're apparently trying to avoid the bad weather expected to hit the Nordlands in November, so they've moved up the date."
"Wait, we're going there?" Henry asked, upset that he'd missed the announcement and didn't know any of this. "To the Nordlands?"
"Last year they held it here, this year we go there," Edmund said. "So are you looking to participate?"
"Me?" Henry asked, surprised. "I still don't even know what it is."
Rohan sighed and explained in full while Henry ate his sandwich. One weekend a year, the students at Knightley had a friendly contest against the students at Partisan, their rival school in the Nordlands. The students competed in all sorts of things--fencing, oratory, composition, model treaty dispute, history quiz team, even choir. First years competed in novice rounds, while second and third years competed in expert. Fourth years were too busy serving apprenticeships in their chosen specialties to be bothered.
While he listened, Henry nodded and smiled, but couldn't help feeling a sense of dread that they were going to the Nordlands--even if the Partisan School was just a few kilometers from the border, at the southern tip of the Great Nordlandic Lakes.
No one went to the Nordlands. The border was closed except to diplomatic parties and natural-born citizens, but then, an envoy from Knightley was certainly considered a diplomatic party. Henry thought--suddenly, unexpectedly--of the sinister newspaper clippings he and Adam had received in the post.
The Nordlands. Well, he'd find out if there was any truth to the rumors soon enough.
They had fencing next lesson, and Adam, despite his recent injury, clamored about how he intended to sign up to fence at the Inter-School Tournament as they made their way to the armory.
"Just you wait, I'm going to slaughter those Partisan students," Adam said.
"Er, right," said Henry, while Rohan bit his lip.
"Mr. Beckerman," the fencing master called the moment they entered the armory, "you'll be sitting out this lesson due to your injuries."
Henry had to stop himself from laughing at the look on Adam's face, which was more injured than his side. But then, it wasn't funny. How could anything be funny after Professor Stratford's revelation about their marks at Knightley, about the weight of their actions?
Someone was out to get them, to make sure they failed. This wasn't some dumb prank war or a schoolboy grudge.
It was real, and the stakes were terrifying.
On the fencing master's orders, Henry and Rohan mechanically walked over to the equipment cupboard to pick up their foils with the rest of the class.
But Henry's foil was missing. He stared at the empty cubby, a sense of dread thick in his stomach. Their saboteur had struck again.
"Mr. Grim! Is there a problem?" the fencing master called.
"Yes, sir," Henry said with a sigh. "My foil is missing, and it's the only left-handed sword."
The fencing master frowned.
"It was here this morning, and I've misplaced the key to the storeroom, so you'll have to make do with one of the right-handed foils today."
Henry opened his mouth to argue, but then closed it. It was just too convenient that the key to the storeroom had gone missing as well.
"Yes, sir."
Henry picked up a spare right-handed foil and tried to grasp it in his left hand. But
it was no use--the grip plate was all wrong. Instead of providing grooves for his fingers, the grip dug into them.
He frowned at the sword and tried a few passes, but it felt as though the sword might fly from his hand at any moment. As an experiment, he switched the foil to his right hand, where his fingers easily nestled in the grip. Switching his stance to suit, Henry tried an advance-retreat-lunge and nearly tripped over his own feet.
Rohan caught Henry's eye.
"Bad luck," he said with a sympathetic smile. "Are you going to be able to fence?"
"I'll have to," Henry said through gritted teeth.
The fencing master, apparently satisfied that he had fixed the problem, led the class through a form warm-up.
Henry fumbled along as best he could. It wasn't too hard to do the handwork without the footwork added in.
The fencing master called an end to the drill and divided the class by skill level. Henry and the rest of the intermediates were to partner up and fence to three hits, then rotate.
Henry took his place across from Rohan.
"Go easy on me," Henry said through his visor, his every instinct being to put his left foot forward, as he had learned.
Rohan nodded and gave a broad salute, which Henry returned.
And then Rohan started forward.
Henry fumbled his footwork and, with a useless riposte that missed Rohan's blade by miles, was quickly struck square in his target zone. Rohan did go easy on him, but Henry doubted he could have landed a hit against Lawrence Shipley, the worst of the beginners, so long as he was fencing right-handed.
Henry and Rohan shook hands, and Rohan moved on to fence James St. Fitzroy, the undefeated checkers champion of the common room. But no one wanted to fence Henry.
"Sorry, but you could kill me with that thing."
"I preferred you left-handed, Grim."
"Maybe next time?"
"I've already promised Theobold next bout."
Henry was grateful for the mesh visor that hid his expression as classmate after classmate refused the next bout.
It wasn't as though he blamed them--what was the fun of an easy defeat against an opponent who couldn't put up a fight?--but it still felt awful. As he stood there, his face going hot beneath his mask, Henry had the horrible sensation that he was back at the orphanage in Mid-summer, a small, gangly boy who was always picked last for teams, a boy who had learned to prefer the company of books to the company of the bullying, cruel orphans.
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