The School for Good and Evil #5: A Crystal of Time

by Soman Chainani

  “I can hear you,” sniffled Caleb, his cheeks pink.

  “Be home before seven, Cedric,” said the woman tightly. “Your father’s making supper and I don’t want you and Caleb out when it’s dark.”

  “Now you’re sounding like Aunt Grisella,” Cedric sighed, brushing by Hort and Nicola, hugging his brother to his side. “Maybe we’ll pick up a meat pie on the way home.” He peeked back at his mother. “If Father’s making supper.”

  A smile cracked through the woman’s hard features as she watched her two sons go, her eyes softening, then turning mournful. She noticed Hort and Nicola still standing there and her imperious stiffness returned. “The school is closed for the day. You may write my office to schedule an appointment with Dean Brunhilde for a future date. Now please leave before I call the king’s guards,” she said, scuttling past them and down the stairs. Hort watched her accost the gardener—

  “Caleb and Cedric went to the park. Keep an eye on them,” she told him quietly, handing the gardener a few silver coins.

  “Cedric’s a grown man, Mistress Gremlaine,” he said. “He don’t need me over his shoulder—”

  She squeezed his arm. “Please.”

  The man searched her face. “Of course, miss,” he said, gently. He slipped the coins back in her hand. “If I was in your shoes, I’m sure I’d do the same.”

  He put down his shears and hustled after the boys, while Mistress Gremlaine stayed behind, that mournful gaze returning. . . .

  She frowned suddenly and swiveled towards the school steps, the door still open at the top, just as she’d left it.

  But Hort and Nicola were no longer there.

  “DID YOU HEAR what that man said? He called her Mistress Gremlaine,” Nicola whispered as they scurried through the entrance hall of the school, Hort peeping back nervously to make sure the woman wasn’t following them.

  “So what?” Hort said, lost in the maze of musty corridors and spiral staircases. “How do we know which one goes to the dorms—”

  “So what? Lady Gremlaine was Tedros’ steward at Camelot!” Nicola reminded him. “Suppose this Gremlaine’s related to her!”

  “Doesn’t help us get Rhian off the throne, so stop playing Detective Nic and start looking for a way to Arbed House,” said Hort, peering into deserted classrooms, reeking of sweat and mildew. He sneezed, his eyes watering from the veils of dust. On the outside, the Foxwood School for Boys looked like an elegant cathedral, the hedges pruned, the gray stone polished, but on the inside it felt like a decrepit church, the floorboards creaking, the walls covered in mold, and cracked plaques offering dubious advice: “HEADS UP AND FALL IN LINE”; “FOLLOW THE LEADER”; “RULES ARE THE SPICE OF LIFE.” Growing up, he’d thought of Foxwood as obscenely rich, given its steel trade, but clearly none of that wealth was going towards boys’ education. Even the old schoolhouse in Bloodbrook, the poorest realm in the Woods, was in better shape. It’s what he hated about Evers, Hort thought, recalling the workers sprucing up the school’s facade: so much of being Good was a show. You had to rip away the surface, past the Beautification lessons and noble intentions, to find out who an Ever really was. At least Nic wasn’t like that, he thought, as his girlfriend towed him to the end of the hall. Nic was more like a Never: too much herself to ever be able to hide it.

  Turning a corner, they were hit with sunlight from a scummy stained glass window, illuminating another plaque over their heads: “LOYALTY OVER BOLDNESS.”

  “No wonder every boy in this town becomes a sidekick,” Hort muttered.

  A door slammed somewhere close.

  Sharp heels clacked on stone.

  Hort’s stomach flipped. He pulled at Nicola’s arm, guiding her towards a staircase ahead, but Nic resisted, her eyes pinned through the stained glass.

  A redbrick, two-story cottage lay in the yard outside, apart from the rest of the school, surrounded by clean, neat grass. Hort glimpsed a sign on a stake in front of it:

  PERMITTED STUDENTS ONLY

  And in the corner of the sign, a signature . . .

  Dean Brunhilde

  “LET ME DO the talking,” Nicola whispered as Hort followed her into the foyer.

  “You’re a Reader. I know how to talk to real people,” Hort rebuffed.

  “And I’m the one who knows how to get what we need, so just smile and look pretty like the blond prince you are,” Nicola ordered. “And don’t touch anything.”

  Hort was certainly temped to. From the moment they’d come into the cottage, met with a clean breeze through the open windows, it was as if they’d left the school and stepped into Mother Goose’s den. Cozy patterned rugs covered the floor, appointed with rocking chairs and soft couches. Potted lilies and fiddle trees bloomed near a spiral staircase, the bookcases behind it teeming with storybooks. Hort fingered a heavy blanket on the couch, furry and soft. He could feel his eyes closing. All he wanted to do was gorge on cheesy potatoes and hide under the blanket. The lighting wasn’t helping: a sleepy orange glow seeping from dozens of glass-cased candles.

  Then Hort noticed the picture frames, peppered across the tables and mantel. In every portrait, there was a stout, dark-skinned woman with beehive hair posed with a group of boys. Hort bent over, peering at more of these portraits. In each one, the boys changed but the woman remained, presiding over a new group.

  Dean Brunhilde, Hort thought, moving to the last portrait on the mantel. . . .

  His stomach dropped.

  He picked up the frame—

  Nicola slapped his hand. Then she saw what he was looking at and snatched it from him.

  In the picture, Dean Brunhilde stood with a class of eight boys, all teenagers.

  Four weren’t familiar. But the other four were, huddled in the corner with mischievous grins, like a band of thieves.

  A boy with angled eyes and a square jaw.

  Kei.

  A boy with violet eyes, spiky black hair, and sculpted muscles.

  Aric.

  A boy with copper hair, pale skin, and cold blue eyes.

  Japeth.

  And next to him . . . a boy with the same face.

  Rhian.

  Slowly Hort and Nicola looked at each other.

  Rhian had told the truth.

  He’d been here.

  They’d all been here.

  In this house.

  This is where it began.

  Chills swept up Hort’s spine—

  “You must be lost,” said a voice, and Hort jumped out of his skin.

  A boy in a school uniform came out of the next room, fourteen or fifteen with black hair, sunken eyes, and misshapen teeth, wielding a fistful of steak knives.

  Nicola recoiled, bumping into Hort, who shoved the portrait behind his back.

  “No one comes to Arbed House unless they’re lost,” said a younger boy, emerging next to the first, clutching forks and spoons. “Or if they want to steal our tea. We have the best tea: mint, assam, rose, tulsi, eucalyptus, licorice, cardamom, chamomile. . . .”

  “Arjun and I are setting the table for dinner before the rest of the boys get back,” the older one cut in. “I can show you to Mistress Gremlaine’s office—”

  “NO,” blurted their two guests.

  Nicola cleared her throat. “We have an appointment with Dean Brunhilde.”

  “It’s important,” Hort added.

  Nicola gave him a look. Let me handle it, it said.

  But Hort was on edge. That portrait spooked him. Something happened in this house. Something that made Rhian, Japeth, Kei, and Aric band together and become killers. The answer was here. And they had to find it.

  “The Dean isn’t in,” said the older boy.

  “Took the others to buy pins from the market,” the younger boy prattled, a ball of baby fat. “She loves those pins. Been giving them to us as a reward. To keep us doing good deeds. Emilio and I already got ours.”

  “Our guests don’t need every detail of our lives, Arjun,” Emilio sighed, looki
ng back at Hort and Nicola. “I’ll tell the Dean you came by.”

  “We’ll wait for her outside,” said Hort, heading for the door, anxious to talk to his girlfriend alone—

  Nicola yanked him back by his collar and Hort squawked. “Actually, we’ll wait for her here,” she said.

  Hort looked at Nicola, confused.

  Emilio frowned. “I’m not sure when she’ll be ba—”

  “Oooh, they can help us make supper!” Arjun said excitedly. “Girls are good at cooking!”

  Hort could see Nicola gritting her teeth.

  “Arjun, that wouldn’t be appropriate,” said Emilio.

  “But we never get company! Rest of the school thinks we’re Evil!” Arjun insisted, turning to Hort. “You know, cause we’re separate from ’em and live at the school instead of going home to our parents. But we know the truth: that we’re the best souls. That’s why our parents sent us to Dean Brunhilde for training—”

  “Mind if I ask your names?” Emilio asked, appraising his guests.

  Hort answered: “Oh, we’re two friends of Merl—”

  Nicola pinched him and Hort bit back a yelp.

  Then he saw it.

  On the two boys’ lapels.

  Their pins for doing good deeds.

  Lion pins.

  Hort’s heart stopped. Nicola’s clammy hand grazed his.

  “She loves those pins . . .”

  Dean Brunhilde might have been a friend of Merlin’s once.

  But not anymore.

  Because Dean Brunhilde was clearly on King Rhian’s side.

  “So?” Emilio asked, his eyes sharpening.

  “Yes?” Hort squeaked like a rat.

  “Who are you?” Emilio repeated, colder this time.

  “Oh, my boyfriend’s a former student of the Dean’s,” said Nicola smoothly, nodding at Hort. “Must have graduated just before you started. Now working as a guard for King Rhian. We’ve come to surprise her with the news.”

  “I thought you said you had an appointment,” Arjun pipped.

  “We do,” said Nicola, smoothing her dress, “but the news is a surprise. Apologies, but it’s been a long journey and I need to sit down. We’ll just wait in the Dean’s office until she returns.”

  Emilio bristled. “I don’t think that’s—”

  “She’ll be thankful you took good care of us. Don’t worry, keep on with supper duty and we’ll show ourselves there,” said Nicola, scooting past the staircase towards the hall.

  “But her office is on the second floor!” said Arjun.

  “Of course it is,” said Nicola, turning on her heel, Hort scurrying up the steps behind her.

  “FOUND THEM,” HORT breathed, scavenging through a cabinet, pulling out stacks of leather-bound files and spreading them on the floor, soot spiking off the covers. “Labeled by name, but not in any order.”

  “Rhian would have been a student recently. Maybe he’s at the top,” said Nicola, seated at the Dean’s desk, picking through her papers.

  They’d found Dean Brunhilde’s office at the end of the hall, but they hadn’t anticipated what a mess it would be: books and notes everywhere, drained mugs with soggy tea bags, vases of flowers that had been dead for years, and a pervasive layer of dust that fogged up the room. How can a Dean be so squalid? Then Hort remembered his own dad, who was so busy taking care of other pirates that his personal quarters were a wreck. Kneeling on the floor, Hort rifled through the files, searching the labels for Rhian’s name: ATTICUS . . . GAEL . . . THANASI . . . LUCAS . . . MISCHA . . . KEI . . .

  “DEAR MERLIN—”

  Hort wheeled in shock and saw Nicola leap at a brown chestnut bouncing around the desk like a jumping bean, the two sides of the nut flapping open as it spoke: “I’VE TRIED TO SEND THIS MESSAGE SEVERAL TIMES—”

  Hort lunged for the nut, swiped it into one hand, and crushed the two sides shut, silencing it.

  He and Nic stood frozen, listening to the hallway through the closed door.

  It remained quiet.

  “What is that?” Nic whispered, pointing at Hort’s hand.

  “A squirrelly nut,” said Hort. “Safer than a letter, because there’s no paper trail. Squirrel delivers the message and eats the nut, so there’s no evidence it was ever sent. My dad got them from Hook all the time.”

  “That message was for Merlin. We need to hear it!” Nicola insisted. “How do we play it softer?”

  “Whole point of a squirrelly nut is the message can’t be preserved,” said Hort. “If you try to open it with your hands, it plays at twenty times the volume, which lets everyone know the recipient is a cheat. Only way to open the message without a squirrel is to do it the way a squirrel does. Like this.”

  He raised the chestnut like a magician about to do a magic trick and popped it in his mouth. The woody edges chafed against his cheeks, but the nut slid open and a warm bubble of air floated out and pressed against his throat. He closed his eyes and someone else’s words and voice came out of him in a low, hushed tone.

  “Dear Merlin, I’ve tried to send this message several times, but even Mistress Gremlaine’s squirrel can’t find you and hers is the best in Foxwood. I’m aware King Rhian, my once-student, has you in captivity as a traitor for supporting Tedros’ claim to the throne. And though I hate to admit it, Merlin, I believe Rhian’s actions justified. I didn’t know he was Arthur’s heir, but I was his Dean for years and I know his soul. You might think him Evil for all that has transpired, but that is because you and your ward, Tedros, believe you are on the side of Good. Yet Excalibur chose Rhian and Excalibur does not lie. It knows, as I do, that Rhian will make a great king. Just look at how he’s handled the behavior of his own brother. That alone proves the Goodness of Rhian’s soul.

  As for Rhian’s files, I know you sent a snoop spell to my office to find them. My students’ files are secret, as you know, since you were the one who helped me brew the teas that kept their souls invisible from the School Master. (I still make them drink the tea, even with him dead; you can never be too careful.) But regardless of our friendship, you have no right to snoop in my office, which you well know, otherwise you wouldn’t have resorted to criminal means. The reason you didn’t find Rhian’s files, however, is because I keep them with his brother’s, which I’ve now moved to a secure location, untouchable by your magic.

  I do wish you the best, Merlin, whatever your condition, but the sooner you align with the king and swear your loyalty to him, the sooner you will be on the side of Good. True Good.

  Best wishes . . . Brunhilde.”

  The nut went spongy in Hort’s mouth and dissolved down his throat, sweet and earthy.

  He opened his eyes.

  “His files aren’t here, then,” said Nicola, panicked. “She moved them. Somewhere we won’t find them.” She grabbed Hort’s wrist. “We have to leave before she comes back!”

  “Wait,” said Hort, kneeling down to the files on the floor. He picked up the one labeled: KEI. “Just because Rhian’s files aren’t here, doesn’t mean we can’t find something in one of his friends’.”

  He pulled open the leather folder as Nicola dropped next to him. Hort read the first page of notes.

  Father: Footman for King Dutra

  Mother: Kei is disturbed; cold, emotionless, no love towards sisters

  Father thinks it’s a phase: says Kei loves Camelot & King Arthur; wants to be a Camelot guard

  Agree on 1-year trial in Arbed House

  Hort flipped to the next page.

  Rhian & Kei: constant Camelot role-play (Kei believes R’s delusions that he’s king); Others, incl. RJ, bully Kei for believing R

  Separate Kei & R?

  Hort moved to the next page.

  Kei: chosen for Ever Guard Trials

  Then—

  Kei & R no longer speaking

  The rest of Kei’s file tracked his performance in the Trials, leading up to his selection by Camelot as a guard at the royal castle.

&n
bsp; Hort bit his lip. So Rhian had known that he was Camelot’s king when he was at school. Only no one at school believed him, except Kei. So why had Kei and Rhian become estranged? Had Kei stopped believing Rhian? Only to later return to Rhian’s side? That would explain Rhian’s comment to his captain at the castle, when Kei failed to catch Agatha: “But if you’re going to be the weak link, especially after I took you back . . .”

  Was that also why Dean Brunhilde believed Rhian’s soul was Good? Because she’d ignored his “delusions,” only to be proven wrong?

  Maybe that’s why Rhian was sent to Arbed House in the first place. Because he insisted to his parents that he was King Arthur’s heir . . . Because they thought him delusional, like the Dean did . . . But then where was Japeth in all this?

  “Hort,” Nicola said.

  He turned and saw her holding a file labeled: ARIC.

  The first page had more notes.

  Found starving & alone in Woods (age: 8? 9?)

  Raised by Mahut family (Aric attacked their daughter; murdered pets; burned down house)

  Brought to Arbed House for full rehabilitation

  Hort moved to the next page, the writing more scratchy and frantic.

  Spending too much time with RJ

  Then—

  Attempts to separate them failing

  There were no more pages in the file.

  “Who’s RJ?” Hort asked. “I thought you said Aric was friends with Japeth.”

  “Japeth is RJ’s middle name,” said Nicola.

  “How do you know?” said Hort.

  Nicola held up a faded envelope.

  R. JAPETH OF FOXWOOD

  62 STROPSHIRE ROAD

  It had already been opened. They read the letter inside.

  DEAR JAPETH,

  TRIED TO WRITE YOU AT SCHOOL. THAT WITCH DEAN PROBABLY KEPT MY LETTERS FROM YOU. BECAUSE I ATTACKED YOUR BROTHER. EVEN THOUGH I HAD FULL RIGHT. YOU KNOW I HAD FULL RIGHT. NOW I’M EXPELLED FROM THE ONLY HOME I HAD. AND THE ONLY FRIEND.