The Secret Prince

by Violet Haberdasher

  “Well, mental or not, I’m glad you’re here,” Henry admitted. “Come on.”

  They changed from their livery in the train station and trudged back up the hill to the Partisan School wearing their raggedy shirts and trousers. Their hands were blistered and raw from scrubbing dishes and soft rains had come overnight, dampening the soil, which clung desperately to the soles of their old boots. They looked tired and wan, with circles under their eyes and stomachs rumbling with hunger.

  Somehow, Henry thought wryly, he didn’t anticipate problems convincing anyone that they were down on their luck and desperate for work.

  He was right. No sooner had they turned up at Partisan and inquired after serving work than they were standing once again in the staff kitchen, being scrutinized by the large-bellied man they’d seen sleeping in front of the hearth the night before.

  He didn’t seem to recognize them, and Henry tried a bit of a Nordlandic accent, explaining that he and his cousin had been living in South Britain before Mors closed the border, and they had some experience with serving work.

  The man scratched the side of his stomach, sized the boys up, and asked them to follow him. He lumbered out of the kitchen and down the corridor, twisting down a narrow passageway that barely allowed for his girth. The passageway deposited them in a much larger and far shabbier kitchen.

  “Cook?” the man yelled. “Got ye some new lads.”

  Cook, a man with an enormously drooping mustache and biceps like hams, looked up from the rind of cheese he was slicing. “What’s yer names?” Cook asked.

  “Henry, er—Gray. And this here’s me cousin Adam, er—Beckham,” Henry said nervously.

  “We’ve been wantin’ some lads in the staff kitchen, but let’s see how ye do here first,” Cook said with a scowl.

  “We’re hired?” Adam asked.

  “Aye,” Cook said. “May I not live to regret it.” He sniffled loudly, wiped his nose on his sleeve, and pulled a string that connected to one of the dozen bells on the wall.

  “Sit ye down and wait,” the cook said, pointing his knife toward a rickety wooden table with a dreary collection of wobbly stools. Half a loaf of bread sat on the table. Adam’s stomach growled loudly as he stared longingly at the bread.

  “Please, sir, is there something we might eat?” Henry asked.

  “Yesterday’s bread’s on the table. Take a slice fer yer luncheon if ye’ve had none,” Cook said.

  Adam was already cramming the bread into his mouth with enthusiasm. Henry rather suspected that when they got back to school, Adam wouldn’t be nearly so much of a picky eater as before.

  School. Henry’s stomach lurched at the thought. They were to find out the results of their half-term exams that week. He pictured Rohan and Derrick and everyone going to class without them, Rohan alone in their triple room, and Valmont left with running the battle society. Professor Stratford, worrying. Adam’s parents.

  After a few minutes a no-nonsense-looking young man of around nineteen appeared in the doorway, entirely unruffled.

  “Ye rang fer me, Cook?” the young man asked, raising an inquiring eyebrow.

  “Got ye some new serving boys, Compatriot Garen,” Cook said.

  “Thank the chancellor!” the young man said. “We’ve been understaffed fer a week!” The young man straightened his waistcoat and glanced toward Henry and Adam. “I’m Garen,” he said. “You boys can come with me.”

  Henry and Adam numbly followed Garen, who kept up a steady stream of chatter as he led them through the castle. They were expected to report to the kitchens by six every morning, to clean the school between meals, to shine the boots of the senior-ranked students two nights a week. The list of tasks went on exhaustively.

  “Any questions?” Garen asked, pausing at the bottom of a steep and precarious stairwell with stone steps so worn that they appeared to sag.

  “Sorry—senior-ranked students?” Henry asked. “Those with white stripes on the arms of their jackets,” Garen clarified.

  Henry bit his lip. He’d meant to ask how students were promoted to different ranks, but Garen had misunderstood. Not quite daring to rephrase his question, Henry followed Garen and Adam up the ancient stairwell. The stairwell led to the castle’s attic, a haphazard honeycomb of low-ceilinged rooms.

  Garen pointed out the latrine, the serving girls’ bedchamber, the cleaning cupboard, and the cupboard with staff uniforms. He stopped at the last, sized up Henry and Adam, and then ducked inside, returning a minute later with a bundle of clothing.

  “If they don’t fit, ye can swap them yerselves,” Garen said. “And here we are. Serving lads’ bedchamber. Any of the cots here are free.”

  Henry frowned. There had to be at least four empty beds. And Garen had said something earlier about being short staffed. Granted, it didn’t seem the best of jobs, but something about the way Garen was so eager to have them on staff worried Henry deeply. He dropped his satchel onto one of the cots, and Adam chose the cot next to Henry’s.

  “Get changed, and then ye can start with an easy enough task fer the afternoon. The spare silverware needs polishin’. Cook can set ye to it. Ye’ll keep to his orders in the kitchens and mine otherwise, mind.”

  “Yes, sir,” Henry said. “It’s ‘Aye, Compatriot Garen,’ ” Garen corrected firmly, turning on his heel and closing the door behind him. Once Garen had gone, Adam held up the staff uniform shirt and made a face.

  “What are we, vicars?”

  The shirts were collarless, with tight high buttons around the throat. But the worst bit were the suspenders, which fastened inside the waistband of the trousers.

  “At least we don’t have to bind up our hair,” Henry pointed out as they headed down to the kitchens.

  Cook showed them to a storage pantry with a discouragingly small slat window. “Ye better not scrimp the silver,” Cook warned, showing them where the polish was stored and then slamming the door.

  Henry explained to Adam what they were to do, and the boys set to work. “Did you catch that bit about the school being understaffed?” Henry asked.

  Adam looked up from the spoon he’d been attacking with the polishing cloth. “What?”

  “Why do you think Partisan is understaffed?” Henry pressed.

  “Dunno. Maybe it’s just a rubbish job.” Adam shrugged.

  “Maybe.” Henry was unconvinced.

  “All right. Let’s hear it,” Adam said. He admired the spoon he’d just polished, then hung it from his nose.

  Henry laughed. “Don’t,” he said. “Someone has to eat off that.”

  Adam removed the spoon. “Smells like polish anyhow,” he muttered. “All right. I’m ready for your absurd theory.”

  “It isn’t absurd,” Henry protested. “And I don’t have a theory—yet. I just know that those empty cots are far from the worst beds in the room, and Garen said they’ve been understaffed for a week, which means that no one on staff claimed the beds.”

  “Could be,” Adam said.

  “I’m right,” Henry argued. “Everyone avoided those beds after their occupants left. The school is desperate for staff. And the boys who served the envoy last month wouldn’t go a second round.”

  “George did,” Adam pointed out.

  “Well, not everyone at Partisan quit either. Just some,” Henry returned.

  “So now that we’re stuck here, you think there’s something horrible happening?” Adam whimpered.

  “Not necessarily horrible,” Henry said. “It just seems like people have been spooked by something.”

  “Maybe they’re just spooked because the students are being trained in combat?” Adam suggested.

  “Maybe,” Henry said doubtfully.

  They didn’t see Frankie again until much later that night, as they were returning to the servants’ quarters after mopping the dining hall. She paused a moment at the bottom of the stairs, yawning.

  “Frankie,” Henry whispered fiercely.

  She turned and gawped a
t them. “What are you doing here?” she asked, grabbing Henry and Adam by their sleeves and dragging them farther down the corridor. “I thought you’d gone.”

  “You didn’t make it back to the train,” Adam accused.

  “I got lost in Romborough,” Frankie said. “On that dratted errand. I was so certain you’d left. I’ve been in a panic all afternoon.”

  “Sorry,” Henry said. “We were stuck polishing silverware.”

  Frankie sized up their staff uniforms and nodded. “Common kitchens,” she said.

  Henry’s eyes widened with surprise. “How can you tell?”

  “No waistcoat,” she said as though it were obvious.

  “Oh,” Henry muttered.

  “So here’s some bad news,” Adam said brightly. “We’re stuck here for a month.”

  Frankie went pale. “A month?”

  “That’s when the next envoy is due to arrive,” Henry said, shrugging.

  “B-but—,” Frankie spluttered.

  “Fear not, fair maiden. We’re here to rescue you,” Adam said. “And by ‘rescue’ I mean ‘endure a month in the Nordlands at your side.’ ”

  “I—” Frankie shook her head slightly as if to clear it, and then began again. “You chose to stay here for a month because of me?”

  Henry and Adam exchanged a glance. “We couldn’t leave you here,” Henry said with a shrug.

  “But what about school?” Frankie pressed.

  “I have some textbooks in my bag,” Henry said, frowning. “I suppose we could try to keep up with the reading.”

  “Blimey, I sure am glad you brought those textbooks now,” Adam said with a snort.

  Frankie grinned, and then noticed Henry’s scowl. “Sorry,” she muttered.

  “Does anyone know you’re here?” Henry asked.

  “No!” Frankie retorted. “Did you tell anyone where you were going?”

  “Actually, yes,” Henry admitted.

  “Rohan,” Frankie guessed.

  Henry nodded.

  “Professor Stratford?” Frankie continued. “Anyone else?”

  “Well,” Adam hedged. “Derrick. And Valmont.”

  “You told Valmont?”

  “It’s complicated,” Henry muttered.

  “What’s complicated about it?” Frankie accused. “You chose to be friends with him and pushed me away for no reason.”

  “Then why am I here now?” Henry challenged. “Why did I jump off a blasted moving train to spend a month polishing boots in the Nordlands?”

  Frankie turned crimson. “Sorry,” she murmured.

  “I jumped off a moving train too,” Adam put in.

  “Ooh, aren’t you a gallant young knight,” Frankie taunted.

  “Shhh!” Henry said, glancing around. “We shouldn’t talk like that here. It isn’t safe.”

  “I should get to bed anyhow,” Frankie said. “We can talk in the morning. I don’t think it would draw any suspicion … unless it’s improper?”

  “It isn’t,” Henry confirmed. “The serving class do as they wish, at least back home. But it wouldn’t hurt for us to make certain we know the customs here.”

  “I’ll see you in the morning,” Frankie said primly, heading back in the direction of the servants’ quarters.

  “Er,” Henry said pointedly.

  “What?” Frankie asked.

  “Boys’ bedchamber is just across the way from the girls’,” Henry said.

  At this a slight blush colored Frankie’s cheeks. “Well, come on,” she snapped.

  At the top of the stairs she regarded the two boys thoughtfully. “Servants can do as they wish?” she questioned.

  Henry nodded.

  Frankie gave each of them a quick hug. “Thank you for coming back for me,” she whispered before darting into the girls’ bedchamber.

  Adam stood there, grinning ear to ear.

  “Wipe that grin off your face and come on,” Henry said.

  “Did you know,” Adam said thoughtfully as Henry forcibly steered him into the boys’ bedchamber, “that girls don’t wear corsets in the Nordlands?”

  “I’d imagine not. It must be impossible to scrub floors if you can hardly breathe,” Henry returned, and then he realized that Adam had been talking about Frankie. He blushed, but thankfully, it was quite dark inside the boys’ bedchamber.

  By the small amount of light that spilled in from the hallway from a low-turned gas jet, they changed into the nightshirts Garen had provided for them. The other boys were already asleep, the room buzzing with their soft snores and the occasional cough or sniffle.

  Henry was exhausted, but even long after Adam’s snores joined the rest, he stared up at the low ceiling, unable to sleep.

  Somehow he’d wound up back in the attics, a serving boy at a posh boys’ school. He wondered if he’d ever have the chance to be a student at Knightley again, or if the opportunity had rushed past him, like a missed train.

  And then he wondered why his heart had lurched at the thought of Frankie being left alone in the Nordlands—why he’d leapt off the train to stay with her. And finally he wondered after the strange happenings he’d noticed in the Nordlands. The propaganda-filled newspapers, the missing servants, the beds that spooked the other boys.

  Perhaps they could redeem themselves after all—return to Knightley triumphant, having successfully rescued Frankie, and bringing with them the evidence that would prevent a war, or at least help everyone prepare for one.

  21

  THE UNCLAIMED LUGGAGE

  Rohan woke on Monday morning with a start. He listened to the peal of bells, feeling as though he’d fallen asleep waiting for something, and was waiting still.

  And then he glanced toward the two empty beds and tried very hard not to panic. Henry and Adam had been due to return the night before. He’d tried to wait up for them but had fallen asleep.

  Their absence threw him. Had something happened?

  Rohan dressed quickly and sat with James at chapel, trying to ignore the questioning glances from Derrick and Valmont. Did they know? Apparently so, as both boys ambushed him the moment the service ended.

  “What’s happened?” Derrick asked.

  “I don’t know,” Rohan said tersely.

  “Maybe the envoy is late,” Valmont said.

  “How the devil did you get involved in this?” Derrick asked Valmont.

  “I might ask you the same,” Valmont returned.

  “Be involved in it together, then,” Rohan said. “I wanted nothing to do with it from the beginning.” And with that he quickened his pace toward the dining hall.

  Even though saying that Henry and Adam hadn’t gotten up for chapel and were currently indisposed wasn’t truly a lie, Rohan still felt as though it were. It wasn’t until whispers started circulating that the search had been called off for the headmaster’s daughter that Rohan decided to abandon his self-imposed silence.

  He approached Derrick and Conrad after languages that afternoon.

  “Want to know how we did on the midterm?” Conrad asked, as they had just gotten their marked translations back at the end of the lesson.

  “No,” Rohan said. “I, well, I’ve been hearing whispers that they’ve found news of Miss Winter.”

  “So have we,” Derrick said.

  “Well, do you know anything more about it?” Rohan pressed.

  “Not a thing,” Derrick said. “It’s servants’ gossip anyhow. But if I were you, I’d be concerned with your roommates. They can’t stay ill forever.”

  “I told them I wasn’t a part of this,” Rohan muttered.

  “No use bemoaning it now,” Derrick scolded. “Man up.”

  Man up? Rohan thought bitterly. And do what? Confess to Lord Havelock that he’d stood idly by while his roommates ran off to the Nordlands?

  Well, he reasoned, it was a servants’ envoy. If anyone would know whether the envoy had come back the night before, it was the servants. Rohan shouldered his bag with a sigh and headed in th
e direction of the kitchens.

  “Where are you going?” a voice drawled. Valmont leaned casually against the wall, a cold smile playing over his face.

  “To the WC, if you don’t mind,” Rohan snapped.

  “Wrong direction,” Valmont said, his smile stretching wider.

  Rohan glared.

  “The way I see it,” Valmont continued, unruffled, “is that we’ve both been left with a rather unpleasant mess to clean up. I’d prefer we handled it together, if that’s all right with you.”

  Rohan considered the proposition. It was a bit of a sticky situation, and he could do worse than ally himself with Lord Havelock’s ward and nephew.

  “Come on,” he said finally.

  Valmont fell into step. It didn’t dawn on him where they were headed until Rohan paused at the top of a servants’ staircase. “Keep your opinions to yourself, if you don’t mind,” Rohan snapped.

  “Suits me,” Valmont said coolly.

  The kitchen was bustling, with the staff already hard at work preparing supper. A few serving boys and maids glanced up when Rohan and Valmont appeared in the doorway. “Er, excuse me,” Rohan tried, a bit nervously. He’d never ventured to the kitchens by himself, and rarely accompanied Henry and Adam, who were veterans at coaxing biscuits and tarts out of the softhearted maids.

  “Yes, sir?” one of the newer maids said, flouncing over and bobbling a curtsy. “Anythin’ I can ’elp with?”

  Rohan shot Valmont a warning glance. “Er, is Liza here?” he inquired.

  The maid tittered.

  Rohan turned crimson at the silent insinuation. “Just fetch her, will you?” he ordered imperiously.

  “No need fer that, deary,” Liza said, sauntering over as she dried her hands on a tea towel. “I’m here now.” She stared at the boys, as though expecting a bow, but that would have been absurd, Rohan reasoned. He was the son of a duke, and he had no call to humble himself in the presence of school servants.

  “Has the envoy returned?” Rohan demanded.

  Liza pressed her lips together and continued drying her hands on the ragged tea towel.

  “It’s rather important,” Rohan continued. “You see, my friends were on it—and they’ve left me in quite a pickle this af—”