The Secret Prince

by Violet Haberdasher

  Henry flinched at Lord Havelock’s closeness—at the graying stubble on Lord Havelock’s sunken cheeks, the stench of moldering tobacco that seemed to come from his pores.

  “I wasn’t the one pushing people down staircases,” Henry said, his voice cracking nervously.

  “In here,” Lord Havelock said, grabbing a fistful of Henry’s shirtfront and dragging him into an alcove that led to the servants’ quarters below stairs. “Now explain yourself.”

  “Explain what?” Henry asked, puzzled. “Am I wrong in supposing that you wish to attend Knightley Academy, Mr. Grim?”

  “No, sir.”

  “And am I wrong in supposing that you are aware that not everyone wishes to have students such as yourself at the academy?”

  “I’m aware, sir.”

  Lord Havelock gave Henry a significant look. “Must I remind you that many such people are upstairs, and have just witnessed your behavior?”

  Henry stared at Lord Havelock in surprise. “Well, no. I—I mean—,” Henry stuttered.

  “You mean what, exactly, Mr. Grim?” Lord Havelock asked silkily. “To jeopardize your hard-won place at Knightley? To make Lord Winter and myself look bad in front of our peers? Or to pursue a schoolboy grudge I have tried my hardest to put to an end?”

  Henry sighed. He just couldn’t win. “Valmont dumped his cider down my shirt, sir.”

  “It was provoked, I’m sure,” Lord Havelock returned.

  “Is that all, sir?” Henry asked.

  “So eager to return to the company of your improper little lady friend, Mr. Grim?”

  “No, sir,” Henry said, staring at his shoes.

  “Look at me when I’m talking to you,” Lord Havelock commanded.

  Henry caught his breath and stared up at his head of year.

  “I don’t know what you were doing this afternoon, and I don’t care to,” Lord Havelock continued, “but before you return to school, let me make one thing clear: You are not, under any condition, to do anything foolish with regard to the events of last semester. Do you understand me?”

  “Not fully,” Henry admitted.

  “Looking for Sir Frederick would be a severe violation of the Code of Chivalry,” Lord Havelock clarified.

  Henry blanched. “I wasn’t looking for Sir Frederick,” he muttered.

  “You were looking for trouble. It’s the same thing,” Lord Havelock snapped. “You forget that I vouched for you and your friends at the hearing last term. That I took the blame for your foolishness.”

  “And you forget about the Midsummer Curse,” Henry said, trying to keep his voice calm and even. “I know what you tried to do, rigging the exam.”

  Lord Havelock’s eyes narrowed. “You are quick to accuse, Mr. Grim, but slow to produce proof to back up your claims.” Lord Havelock paused, letting the barb dig in before resuming his lecture. “A lesson for you, Mr. Grim: Intending an action and doing it are far from the same thing. Until you are right there, with the choice in front of you, you can only guess what you might do, and what your character might be. Are you hero or coward? Often you will guess wrongly.”

  Henry frowned. Was Lord Havelock talking about Sir Frederick or the fight with Valmont or the Knightley Exam the previous May? Henry puzzled over this for a moment in that cool dark annex, with the merriment of the party clattering above him.

  “They haven’t chosen a new chief examiner for the coming year,” Henry said, carefully watching Lord Havelock’s face to confirm his suspicion. He’d guessed correctly. Emboldened, Henry asked, “I don’t suppose you’d be wanting your old position back, sir?”

  “It is to everyone’s advantage, not just my own, that troublemakers are watched carefully,” Lord Havelock returned. “And you, Mr. Grim, are trouble.”

  It was rather starting to seem that way, Henry thought dejectedly, whether he meant to be or not.

  3

  KNIGHT AT THE STATION

  Henry straightened his uniform as he stepped off the clanging omnibus outside of Hammersmith Cross Station. All the way to the station, he’d felt the other passengers staring at his pressed gray trousers with the first-year yellow piping down the sides, his yellow-and-white-striped tie, and his dark blue formal jacket, a bit worse for wear, done in a military cut with brass buttons, white braid, and the school crest over the right breast pocket, bearing the silhouette of an old-fashioned knight with a lance, seated upon a prancing horse.

  It hadn’t mattered that he’d kept his boxy stiff-brimmed ceremonial school cap hidden in his lap, or that he’d nearly blocked the aisle with the corner of his largest suitcase, which had stubbornly refused to fit anywhere else. Everyone still treated him with respect. Old men still doffed their caps as they passed. Little children still pointed excitedly. He didn’t think he’d ever get used to it.

  Henry waited until the omnibus had gone before putting on his cap and checking Rohan’s old pocket watch. There was plenty of time before the ten o’clock train to Knightley Academy, Avel-on-t’Hems, departed from platform three. With a sigh he picked up his suitcases, wondering for the fifth time that morning if he really did need quite so many books.

  It was old Mrs. Alabaster’s fault, really. She’d given him a massive parcel of dusty old mystery novels at Christmas, an unnecessary present that had made Henry feel guilty for getting her nothing in return. He couldn’t just leave the books behind in the flat for her to find, abandoned and unappreciated. And so Henry gritted his teeth against the weight of his suitcases as he staggered into the station.

  Hammersmith Cross Station, the main railway in the city, was a tremendous, arched thing that rather resembled an overfrosted wedding cake. Grandiose moldings clung to the soaring ceiling, and the marble floor echoed horribly, turning the whole place into an overwhelmingly loud, crowded tunnel.

  Along the walls rows of brightly colored carts sold everything you could imagine, from tiny mechanical toys to garish souvenirs to newspaper cones of fresh-roasted chestnuts. Henry bought a cone of nuts and ate them absently, watching the crowd surge past. Despite the ache in his shoulders from his heavy suitcases, and despite the more than occasional curious glance in his direction, Henry couldn’t help but smile. In just a few hours he’d be back at Knightley Academy, sharing a triple room with his best friends, spending his evenings playing chess in the common room, and trying not to laugh over Professor Lingua’s abysmal Latin pronunciation in languages.

  Finally he was going home. Or at least the closest thing he had to one.

  Henry crumpled the newspaper cone into a ball, and his heart hammering excitedly. And then he caught sight of the headline crushed in his fist. FFLING AFFLIC IN NORDL MENTAL LUM.

  Henry smoothed out the page so that he could properly see the article, even though he already knew what it said. The story had haunted him for two days, ever since he’d come across it over breakfast: During a routine inspection of a Nordlandic mental asylum, more than a dozen inmates were found to have had their tongues split down the middle, which had rendered them incapable of speech. There was no explanation for this procedure, and no record of it in the patients’ files. It was simply a mystery, and yet another troubling occurrence done under the terrifying leadership of Chancellor Mors.

  His throat suddenly dry, Henry tossed the newspaper page into the nearest rubbish bin. Just six months before, he’d dismissed all of these rumors as preposterous gossip from reporters desperate for a story. Six months ago he wouldn’t have believed it. But now, with what he knew of the Nordlands, with what he had seen during the Inter-School Tournament at the Partisan School, stories such as this one worried him deeply.

  “Not the wisest place to stand, son,” a man’s voice said kindly.

  Henry looked up, startled. A police knight winked at him before giving a salute, which Henry quickly returned.

  “No, sir. I don’t imagine it is,” Henry said.

  The police knight furrowed his brow, and with a sinking feeling Henry realized why. “I know you,” the
police knight said. “You gave that guardian of yours quite a scare on Saturday night.” Henry’s cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

  When he’d returned home after Grandmother Winter’s party, it had been much later than he’d anticipated. And of course he’d forgotten to leave a note. He’d hoped that Professor Stratford wouldn’t worry, but Henry had found the professor frantically accosting a police knight outside the flat, insisting that his ward was missing, and demanding that a search party be formed. His ward. Right.

  By the time everything had been straightened out and Professor Stratford had stopped shooting Henry troubled, searching looks when he’d thought Henry wouldn’t notice, it had been past midnight. Professor Stratford had left the following morning to get settled into his old rooms in the headmaster’s house at Knightley Academy, and to prepare his lessons as Frankie’s tutor.

  Henry had spent the last two days moping around the flat, mortified that his good deed of delivering Alex’s parcel had caused such a fuss.

  “Yes, sir. I know,” Henry replied a moment too late. “And I’m awfully sorry if you were put to any trouble. Everything’s sorted now.”

  The police knight gave Henry a friendly pat on the shoulder. “No harm. I remember being your age. I was always bunking off to play cricket.”

  “Right, cricket,” Henry said, forcing a smile.

  The police knight dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Or at least that was the excuse I gave my family. Her name was Caroline, she worked in a hat shop in Baker’s Green, and she had eyes like emeralds.”

  Henry’s smile tightened uncomfortably.

  “It’s been such a long time,” the police knight continued. “And then she went and married some banker. Had four kids …” The police knight’s expression turned to one of sadness, and his eyes glazed over as though he were no longer staring at Henry, as though his mind were very far away indeed.

  “Ah,” Henry said politely. “I see.”

  The police knight didn’t respond.

  “I’d, er, better be going, sir. I have a train to catch.” With a hasty salute Henry picked up his bags and wound his way through the crowded station, noticing a few other boys dressed in their Knightley uniforms as he neared platform three.

  When Henry reached the platform, the conductor was already clanging his handbell. “All aboard! Ten o’clock express to Knightley Academy, Avel-on-t’Hems.”

  Henry walked to the end of the platform, remembering from last term that yellows were in the last two cars. It was strange how so many of the faces on the platform were familiar to him now. But even stranger was how, among the blandly supervising butlers and awestruck little brothers, there were at least a dozen young ladies, their lovely faces crumpled with despair as they clung desperately to the arms of their departing suitors.

  Henry nearly laughed aloud at the uncomfortable expression on one of the older boys’ faces as he extracted himself from the arms of a very determined young woman in a preposterously plumed hat. For pity’s sake, Henry thought. It’s not as though we’re going off to war!

  And yet the girls persisted, remaining on the platform to wave their handkerchiefs at the departing train.

  Henry heaved his bags into the last car as the whistle shrilled.

  “Oi, where have you been?” a familiar voice demanded indignantly.

  Henry grinned. “I had to say good-bye to my lady friend. Tell me, do I still smell of her imported perfumes?”

  “No. You reek of something else,” Adam replied merrily. “Come on. Rohan’s meeting us at school, and Edmund’s saving a compartment.”

  Henry gladly followed Adam down the cramped corridor as the train lurched out of the station.

  “Do you like it?” Adam asked, patting the back of his head, where he always pinned his yarmulke. This one was bright yellow.

  “Very, er, yellow,” Henry said diplomatically.

  “That,” Adam said, throwing open the door to a compartment, “is exactly what I was going for.”

  It was afternoon when the train pulled into Avel-ont’Hems station, and the sun was casting long shadows from the bare branches as the boys climbed the hill to the school.

  Knightley Academy was just as rambling as Henry remembered. It sprawled awkwardly over its two dozen acres, featuring a nonsensical array of styles—innocent wooden cottages topped with turrets; a tiny castle with what looked suspiciously like a thatched roof; flying buttresses; trailing ivy; and a staggering amount of chimneys, which Henry suspected were more decorative than actually useful. Thankfully, the hedge maze had been abandoned after it had refused to grow more than waist high. Not so thankfully, it had been replaced by a massive rock garden complete with brightly colored boulders.

  Henry and Adam were still laughing over the rock garden when they reached their room. The door was open, although this took a moment to register, as it was not a very noticeable sort of door. Barricading the doorway, however, was a very noticeable and rather precarious pile of luggage.

  “Henry? Adam? Is that you?” a voice called from inside the room.

  “Rohan?” Adam asked.

  “Naturally,” Rohan replied briskly. “It seems we’ve gotten our bags, but as you can see, they’ve been unceremoniously and inconveniently dumped in our doorway.”

  Henry frowned at the suitcase tower. “What if I pushed that bag on the top? Could you catch it?”

  “I doubt you can reach—,” Rohan protested.

  There was a muffled thwack! that didn’t bode well.

  “You alive in there, mate?” Adam called.

  “Barely,” Rohan groaned. “Next time you’re about to toss a valise at my head, I could do with some warning.”

  “Warning,” Adam said helpfully, giving Henry’s book-filled suitcase a shove.

  By the time the three boys had managed to maneuver their luggage out of the doorway, Adam’s tie hung wildly askew, and Henry’s school hat had been trodden on.

  As the boys unpacked their things, they traded stories of their holiday. Rohan had been in the city for a few days, but his parents had returned to their manor in Holchester when his mother caught a cold. Adam had been stuck at home with his sisters when he wasn’t hanging around the bookshop.

  “They’ve taken up knitting,” Adam wailed, shoving a dozen rainbow-hued yarmulkes into his desk drawer.

  “You might want to save that drawer for school supplies,” Rohan suggested.

  Adam shrugged, and then piled last term’s notebooks on top.

  Henry laughed. He’d missed his friends terribly.

  And with the troubling newspaper article forgotten, Henry hung his formal jacket in the shared wardrobe and told Rohan what had happened at Grandmother Winter’s holiday party.

  4

  HEADMASTER WINTER’S SPEECH

  Even before the bells sounded, signaling half an hour until supper, Henry’s stomach was grumbling with hunger. But, then, it was his own fault; he’d forgotten to buy a sandwich to eat on the train. Edmund had offered to share his, but Henry had declined out of politeness, an act that he was sorely regretting.

  Henry, Adam, and Rohan joined Edmund at the first-year table, on the end closest to the High Table. All across the Great Hall, boys were waving to one another, yelling out greetings, and inquiring after one another’s holidays.

  “All right, Grim?” James St. Fitzroy asked, sliding into the seat on Henry’s left.

  Adam and Rohan exchanged a look.

  “What?” James asked, frowning. “Is the seat taken?”

  “Henry’s left-handed,” Adam said patiently.

  James sighed and turned to Henry for confirmation.

  “Sorry,” Henry said. “I could swap with Edmund, though, if you’d prefer.”

  Edmund, who was on the end, shook his head. “Absolutely not. I like this seat.” A telltale corner of Edmund’s mouth twitched.

  “Oh, very funny,” Henry said.

  “I don’t mind,” James put in quickly, passing the sala
d bowl. Henry gratefully forked a pile of salad onto his plate, marveling at how different everything felt from last term, when the other first years had gone to great lengths to avoid him and his roommates. But, then, what had Henry expected, when Theobold, the resident bully of their year, had disapproved of him so thoroughly? Toward the end of last term, though, the other boys had seemed to tire of Theobold’s imperious orders. And even Valmont had begun to resent his position as Theobold’s second-in-command, since, back at the Midsummer School, he’d had cronies of his own to order about.

  “Hey, wasn’t that bloke at our hearing?” Adam said, nodding toward the High Table and tucking his napkin into the neck of his shirt in the way that irritated Lord Havelock no end.

  Everyone turned.

  There were a few new additions to the staff, but Henry quickly realized whom Adam meant. One of the trustees from their expulsion hearing sat next to Professor Stratford at the High Table. He was youngish and nervous-looking, with a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles that had slipped down his nose. He and Professor Stratford were deep in conversation.

  “Do you think he’s the replacement head of second year?” Rohan wondered.

  “I hope!” Edmund said. “It’s either him or Lord Muttonchops over there.” An old man who rather resembled a basset hound with alarmingly bushy whiskers glowered down at them from the seat next to Professor Lingua.

  At that moment a door hidden in the wooden paneling swung open, and Headmaster Winter hurried into the dining hall, late and out of breath. He fumbled hastily with his cravat as he took his place behind the lectern. Above his head, carved into the mantel of the vast fireplace, was the school motto: A true knight is fuller of bravery in the midst, than in the beginning, of danger.

  The headmaster ran a hand through his patchy ginger and gray beard, composing his thoughts while the students quieted in anticipation; Headmaster Winter’s speeches were rarely long, and were frequently amusing.

  “I do hope the salad hasn’t gone cold whilst you boys were waiting for me to choose a cravat,” the headmaster said. “I really was baffled—red or green, you know. Not an easy decision.” The boys looked at one another, wondering if Headmaster Winter truly had gone mad over the holiday.