Henry sighed. Of course he didn’t. Why else had he struggled through math and history and that horrible Latin in his precious free hours? But Professor Stratford was only trying to help. They both knew that there weren’t many prospects for a fourteen-year-old with a birth certificate that read, baby boy found on church steps on the grimmest day of the year.
“I’m sorry,” Henry said, “but I am trying. I’m putting away money for proper schooling, and maybe one day I’ll have the chance to make my life less unfair, but until then I’m not going to aim for the impossible.”
“I think that’s a brilliant plan,” Professor Stratford snorted. “Why don’t you tell it to Galileo, to Milton, to Michelangelo? Tell them they shouldn’t have aimed for the impossible. Because, Henry, the most terrible thing in this world is to be haunted by those two little words ‘What if ?’ until the end of days.”
Henry sighed. He stared at his tutor, so determined to force the world into a new way of being, where hard work was valued and rewarded in the place of social standing. But the only meritocracy that Henry knew of belonged to their northern neighbors, and there were dark whispers of what price the Nordlandic people really paid for their so-called equality. For Henry, the world had always been divided into commoners and members of the aristocracy, with an unbreakable line between the two.
But times were changing—everyone said so. There were electric lights now and telegrams and steam engines and even the occasional automobile. It was nearly the turn of the century, and that alone was cause enough to wonder what novelties the future would hold. And what if Professor Stratford was right—what if he could sit the exam? He might fail. But he might pass. Would they really let him attend Knightley? To learn medicine, fencing, and diplomacy? To sit as a real student in the lectures at the most elite academy in the country, and not scramble for scraps of leftover lessons in darkened corridors, a mop over his shoulder?
“Professor, do you truly think this is what I should do?”
Henry and the professor stared at each other, fully aware of the consequences this decision might have. Both of them could lose their jobs. The late-night tutoring sessions they’d worked so hard to hide over the past nine months would be instantly obvious. But despite all this, Henry still hoped Professor Stratford would say yes. Henry tensed, waiting for his tutor’s answer.
“Je ne le pense pas, Henri. Je le connais.”
Translation: “I don’t think, I know.”
THE KNIGHTLEY EXAMINATIONS
Ten students stood nervously inside the Great Hall the next morning, awaiting the exam. Despite the early hour, they appeared immaculate, not a hair out of place, not a wrinkle in their trousers.
Henry, having rejected his staff uniform and donned instead his rumpled, secondhand trousers and badly patched shirtsleeves, tried not to fret that his brown hair spilled past his collar or that he hadn’t been able to locate his necktie. He peered through the doorway at the students inside the hall, none of them commoners. These were the boys whose dormitories and classrooms he had scrubbed for the past year, whose suppers he had served. But more important, none of them wanted to go to Knightley as badly as he did. For these boys, getting into Knightley would be an honor to boast about, like getting picked first at sport, but for Henry, it would mean everything.
And so he took a deep breath and stepped into the Great Hall.
The boys, thinking it might be one of the examiners, looked up.
But it was only that odd serving boy, the one with the too-long hair and falling-apart work boots, probably on his day off.
“You’re not supposed to be in here,” Valmont said sneeringly to Henry. “They’re giving an exam.”
It was then or never. Chalkboards or swords. What could be or what if.
“Yes, and I intend to take it,” Henry said coolly.
“You?” Valmont’s lip curled. “Do you even know how to read? And aren’t you supposed to be fixing that clogged toilet up on the third floor?”
The venom in Valmont’s voice stung, and Henry took an involuntary step back.
A couple of boys laughed. And then the perfect retort popped into Henry’s head.
“Why so defensive?” Henry asked. “Are you afraid of some competition?”
“Competition?” Valmont laughed uproariously. “You?”
“Yes.” Henry took a step forward, his brown eyes boring into Valmont’s blue ones. “Me.”
Valmont glared.
Henry smiled.
“Even if you pass the exam, they won’t have you,” Valmont said, and for a moment, Henry’s smile wavered. “So go on, keep wasting everyone’s time. I hope they fire you for this. In fact, I think I’ll see to that personally, once I get into Knightley, which I will, because I’m a Valmont.”
A couple of boys yelled their approval, and Henry forced himself to keep calm. Fighting wouldn’t solve anything—except making sure that he did get fired. But Valmont’s words were poison darts landing a little too close to the target for comfort. What if he was wasting everyone’s time? What if Professor Stratford had believed in him, and risked his place as English master, for nothing?
Trying to quiet these thoughts that thundered through his head, Henry reached into his dirt-smudged satchel, pulled out a book, and leaned against the wall, losing himself in the text.
All too soon the carved wooden doorway at the far end of the hall swung open, and Examiner the Shorter strode forward, hands thrust into the pin-striped pockets of his dark suit.
“Morning, boys.”
“Good morning, Sir Examiner,” the students called in unison, straightening up as though they were already students at Knightley.
Henry closed his book and held it at his side, trying not to fret over how grubby he looked compared to the carefully turned-out students.
“Are all residents of the Midsummer School for Boys who wish to sit this exam present?” the examiner asked.
“Yes, Sir Examiner,” everyone chorused, Henry included.
“Excuse me? Sir Examiner?” Valmont asked, tentatively raising his hand.
“Yes?”
“This boy here”—Valmont pointed at Henry—“is a school servant. He shouldn’t be allowed.”
“I see,” the examiner said coolly, jingling the coins in his pockets. “You, in the shirtsleeves, what’s your name?”
Henry gulped. “Henry Grim, sir.”
“And how old are you, Mr. Grim?”
“Fourteen, sir.”
“And where might you live?”
“The servants’ quarters in the attic rooms, sir.”
“Then it would appear that, this year, you are indeed eligible to sit the exam. And whether or not you should be allowed to do so is not up to the discretion of mere schoolboys.”
Valmont frowned, and Henry tried not to smile.
“And now, if there are to be no more disruptions,” the examiner said, “you will follow me into the anteroom, where you will take the written portion of the exam. You are allowed three hours. To complete the exam in full would take five hours. And so, you must choose which questions you will answer, and think hard about what your choices will reveal when the exam is scored. Follow me, please.”
Henry swallowed nervously and followed the whispering boys through the doorway and into the small anteroom, where four rows of desks had been set up. On each desk sat a thick booklet and a pencil stub without an eraser. Examiner of the Baritone sat at a master’s table facing the rows of desks.
Henry chose a seat in the back. There were sixteen desks, and the other boys avoided him, leaving Henry surrounded by empty seats. This was fine with him. At least no one could accuse him of cheating.
“Before you begin, are there any final questions?” asked Examiner the Shorter.
“I have one,” Harisford said, without bothering to raise his hand. “Sir. Where are the erasers?”
“You will not be permitted to use erasers,” the examiner replied with just the faintest hint of a smile
. “In life, your actions and words are permanent. You may remove the ink, but they are indelible.”
“So it’s part of the test?” Harisford asked.
“Yes, it’s part of the test. Any last questions? No? Very well, time remaining will be given every fifteen minutes. You may begin.”
Henry stumbled out of the anteroom with the rest of the boys, his left hand cramped from writing. He was exhausted, and had no idea whether he had passed or failed. The exam had been full of baffling questions, pages of personal inquiries such as “Please describe your childhood home,” “What is your most shameful memory from when you were young?” “Please describe the sorts of presents you receive on your birthdays and for holidays,” and “If you misbehaved as a boy, what were your punishments like?” And then there were the typical math/science/history/English questions. But there were also odd questions written in foreign languages with instructions to answer these questions in different foreign languages. The last three pages were hypothetical questions: “If you accidentally insulted a foreign dignitary, how would you recover from this faux pas? Please describe a scenario in your answer.”
Henry had mostly answered the school subject questions (he avoided the math ones, as he was terrible at math), the language ones, and the hypotheticals.
Anyway, he didn’t really think it was anyone’s business that his childhood home was the Midsummer Orphanage or that his most shameful memory was the time he visited the City and someone mistook him for a beggar, offering him a spare penny. Or that he sometimes received a pair of new (to him) shoes or trousers on his birthday, and that, when he misbehaved, he was given extra chores to perform on an empty stomach.
He didn’t feel like writing about how the orphanage priest had taken Henry under his wing for a while, teaching him to read and write and hoping that Henry might become a man of the church when he grew older, but all that had stopped when Henry got into a pile of philosophy books and declared that he didn’t believe in God.
And so Henry had waited until he turned thirteen and could leave the orphanage, then hiked up the steep hill to the Midsummer School, with its vast library and gilt-framed portraits, where he worked as a servant boy and studied stolen books at night.
This story, he knew, wasn’t the story of a knight.
Even so, that didn’t stop him from wanting to get into Knightley. Not for the glory of passing the exam and breaking the Midsummer Curse, like so many of the other boys, but because if he did, it would be the first thing to go right in his life in a long while.
Henry’s stomach grumbled, and when he looked at the clock, he realized it was nearly noon and all of the boys were heading in the direction of the dining hall. Cursing under his breath, Henry opened a shabby little door that lead to a servants’ staircase and raced to the kitchen.
“Yer late, boy,” the cook grumbled when Henry arrived, panting, in the clammy kitchen, which smelled of stewed vegetables and roasted meat.
“Sorry,” Henry said, trying to catch his breath.
“’E was takin’ the exam,” one of the maids said, pointing a wooden spoon at Henry. “Fer that fancy school. Wasn’t yeh?”
“Yes, I was,” Henry said quietly, staring at his falling-apart boots.
“Mr. High an’ Mighty thinks ’e’s gonna be a knight,” the maid cackled.
“Well, ’e ain’t,” said the cook. “Now git out there an’ serve yer superiors, boy, no time teh put on yer livery.”
The cook shoved a heavy tray with bowls of savory soup into Henry’s hands.
Henry staggered over to his assigned table, which, just his luck, was filled with boys who’d taken the Knightley Exam.
“Oh, this is priceless,” Valmont said, smirking. “Now do you remember your place, servant boy?”
“You can never step into the same river twice,” Henry said, slamming a soup bowl onto the table in front of Valmont.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Valmont sneered.
“It’s from the Greeks,” Henry said. “And it means that things change.”
With that, Henry plunked the last soup bowl on the table and headed back toward the kitchen to wait for the next course.
Maybe it was Henry’s imagination, but the meal that afternoon seemed unusually filling. After the vegetable soup, there were roast beef sandwiches and roasted potatoes, then chocolate cake with thick frosting.
Henry nibbled at one of the leftover sandwiches, his stomach a heavy pit of nerves. The exam wasn’t finished, of that he was certain. Why else had the examiner called that morning’s test the “written portion”?
As Henry cleared the dessert plates (which the boys at Valmont’s table had deliberately smeared with frosting, and then coated with a disgusting layer of salt and pepper all the way to the edges) he spotted the two examiners seated at the High Table. Professor Stratford also sat at the High Table, and he caught Henry’s eye, clearly wanting to know how the exam had gone.
“Did you need something, sir?” Henry asked, approaching the High Table.
Professor Stratford looked at Henry blankly, and then his face broke into a sheepish grin. “Good heavens, I’ve already forgotten it! No matter. Everything’s going well, then?”
“Excellent, sir,” Henry replied, playing along that he and the professor didn’t know each other, and that their conversation really was as innocent as it sounded.
“That’ll be all, er, Harold,” Professor Stratford said, his eyes twinkling.
“Yes, sir,” Henry said, balancing the dirty dessert plates on his serving platter and heading back toward the kitchen.
“If yeh want supper t’night, yeh can help wash these,” the cook grumbled as Henry brought the plates over to the sink.
Henry sighed and began to roll up his sleeves. But the dining room sounded oddly quiet, and then he heard the boom of a single voice.
“I’m sorry, Cook,” Henry said, dashing back through the swinging door.
“—students who took the written portion of this morning’s exam meet on the back lawn in five minutes. That will be all,” Examiner the Shorter said, standing behind his chair at the High Table.
Henry pushed open the door to the kitchen. “Cook? I can’t help with the dishes now. Can I do it this evening instead?”
“Yeh better. And don’ think I won’ be reportin’ yeh for this.”
“Go ahead,” Henry challenged, his hand still on the door. “It’s not my job to wash plates, anyway. I do chalkboards and Sander does dishes, so make him do what he’s paid for.”
Henry thought he’d be the last one on the back lawn, but when he arrived, he was the first.
That didn’t bode well.
After a minute, all of the other boys approached slowly, in a line, and there was a nasty smile on Valmont’s face.
Silently, the line of boys surrounded Henry in a menacing circle.
Valmont made a sound as though he was going to cough, but then he spat a large glob of saliva. Henry stepped out of the way. But then another boy cleared his throat, and another, and Henry realized what was going on.
He closed his eyes, waiting for it.
And then a familiar voice demanded, “What’s going on out here?”
“Nothing, Professor,” a couple of the boys muttered, reluctantly breaking the circle.
“I should hope not,” Professor Stratford said, and despite his cheerful grin, his eyes were threatening. “I wouldn’t want to have to discipline anyone. Good gracious, I came out here to cheer you boys on.”
“All of us?” Valmont demanded.
“Yes,” Professor Stratford said, raising an eyebrow. “All of you.”
“Oh, wonderful, every one of you is punctual,” Examiner the Shorter called, walking briskly across the grass with Examiner of the Baritone.
“Hello, Sir Examiners,” everyone said.
“Hello, boys. We’ll be running some physical tests this afternoon, so for your sake, I hope you’ve not stuffed yourselves full of sandwiches and cake.�
�
Henry suppressed a smile. Everyone at the table he’d served had practically gorged themselves.
“Well,” Examiner the Shorter continued, “in any case, let’s begin with, shall we say, four laps around the perimeter?”
Each lap was a kilometer, Henry knew.
“Sir?” a boy asked, hand in the air. “What are we to do with our jackets and ties?”
“A good question, and I’m sure you’ll think of an answer quickly,” the examiner replied. “Now, on my mark.”
The boys scrambled out of their neatly pressed coats and ties, flinging them onto the grass.
“Please begin.”
By the end of the first lap, Henry noticed that a few of the boys looked like they might be sick. By the end of the second lap, three of them were.
“Run it off, boys,” Examiner the Shorter called cheerfully, waving his pocket square.
Running in heavy work boots wasn’t the best idea, and Henry finished fifth. His feet ached, and he needed to catch his breath, but he wasn’t too tired, and he definitely wasn’t going to be sick.
“Wonderful effort,” Examiner the Shorter called. “Please line up for cups of water.”
The boys sighed gratefully and shuffled into line, with Henry at the rear.
“Shouldn’t the servant do that?” Valmont huffed as Examiner of the Baritone handed out cups of water.
“Possibly,” Examiner the Shorter conceded, as though the thought had not occurred to him until that very moment. “Now, another lap, please, and try to spill as little of the water as possible while you run.”
A few boys looked up at the examiner in surprise, having already drunk greedily from their cups and having assumed that the ordeal was finished.
“And begin,” the examiner called.
Placing his palm flat over the cup, Henry ran slowly. It wasn’t about finishing first, he knew, it was about the water. Henry was starting to understand that no portion of the exam was exactly as it seemed, that there were tests nestled within tests.
After the lap, the boys were told to line up and give their names. Examiner of the Baritone recorded the amounts of water left in their cups. Henry cast glances out of the corners of his eyes. As far as he could tell, his cup was the fullest.
KNIGHTLEY ACADEMY Page 2
