“I have an idea,” Frankie said as Henry scoured his hands in the scullery sink.
“Just for the record,” Henry stated, “I have come to fear all of your ideas in advance, simply from having endured enough of them.”
“Be glad you weren’t on the receiving end,” Frankie said with an evil grin. “But I think you’ll like this one. I propose that before we spend another night aimlessly wandering the castle, we go to the library and see if we can find some blueprints.”
Henry stared at Frankie in surprise. That wasn’t a horrible idea at all. In fact, he should have thought of it days ago.
“You don’t think Adam will be disappointed that we went to the library without him?” Henry asked with a hint of a smile.
“Oh, he’ll be furious.” Frankie grabbed Henry’s hand. “Come on.”
The library, when they reached it, had closed for the night. The gas jets were turned low, thrusting the contents of the bookshelves into shadow. But even in the dimness Henry could tell that the library was a disappointment. Without standing on tiptoe he could reach the top shelves, and the room was anything but cozy.
There were two long tables where students could study, and uncomfortable-looking chairs pockmarked with graffiti. On the wall across from the study tables was an enormous oil painting of a glowering Chancellor Mors.
“Come on,” Frankie said, pulling Henry over to the card catalogues, past a trolley piled so high with unwanted books that it looked ready to topple. “We need books on the school.”
They looked up the section number, and then squinted at the shelves, searching for the section. When they found it, Henry turned up the nearby gas jet.
“You don’t think anyone will see, do you?” he asked nervously.
Frankie shook her head. “There aren’t any windows.”
She sat down on the floor, her back against a collection of farmer’ almanacs, and began to page through one of the most likely volumes. Henry sat with his back against the opposite shelf, his legs cramped by the narrowness of the aisle.
He’d forgotten how hard it was to sit and read books at the end of a long day’s work. He didn’t know how he’d done it every night back at the Midsummer School.
“I loathe this thing,” Frankie said, taking off her kerchief. “It makes me feel like a country milkmaid.”
“Those poor cows,” Henry said, picking up the next volume in the stack and flipping to the index. They sat for a few minutes, paging silently through their books.
“Here, I’ve found a map,” Henry said, spreading the volume, a bulky folio, across his knees.
Frankie scooted closer to have a look.
“This is the hidden room where I saw the weapons last term,” Henry said, tracing the corridor with his finger.
“How can you tell?”
Henry quickly explained about the hidden door.
“I just look for a room that has a door pretending to be a wall?” Frankie asked, and Henry nodded.
She scowled at the book on Henry’s lap, her hair falling forward over her shoulder. Henry gulped.
“There,” Frankie said, pointing.
“Hmmm.” Henry frowned at the page. “I think you’re right. Where is that?”
“Looks like it’s near the library, actually,” Frankie said.
“Do you reckon we should take a look now? Or should we wait for Adam?”
“He’ll never forgive us,” Frankie said solemnly.
“No, he won’t,” Henry replied just as seriously.
And before either of them knew what was happening, they were kissing.
Kisses are powerful things, easily underestimated because they can seem so small. And yet, though it may feign innocence, the kiss is a deceptive creature that delights in causing trouble. Such was the kiss that Henry and Frankie shared—small and fleeting, yet deeply trouble some.
The kiss lasted just a moment, and then Henry pulled away. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I shouldn’t have—I didn’t—I mean—”
“You mean what, exactly, Mr. Grim?” Frankie demanded, grinning. “To apologize for kissing me or for waiting so long before you did?”
Henry stared at her in surprise.
“Ugh, you’re insufferable sometimes,” Frankie went on. “Head filled with books and conspiracies, and not even a second thought that there might be a reason it scandalized everyone to see us speak with such familiarity back at school.”
“I was helping you with your French!” Henry retorted.
“I didn’t need the help! I just wanted to hear you recite poetry.” Frankie blushed at the confession.
“Poetry?” Henry asked, baffled. “Whatever for?”
“It was rather dashing,” she admitted. “You were so earnest about it.”
“Well, I wanted you to earn good marks.”
Frankie found this hysterical.
“Of course, I didn’t know at the time that you were planning to run away and join the circus,” Henry continued, “or else I needn’t have bothered.”
“I only left because I thought you hated me,” Frankie said.
“You said you were sick of your chaperone!”
“Oh. Well, yes, but I wouldn’t have tolerated being stuck at a boys’ school nearly so long if I hadn’t met a young knight who didn’t mind if I climbed through his window.” And with this, Frankie kissed him again.
Upon consideration, Henry decided that first years were not, in fact, too young to kiss girls. He rather wished he’d come to this conclusion sooner, as it would have saved him quite a bit of confusion over why Frankie had become so upset when he’d jokingly played the role of a suitor that fateful morning after chapel.
And upon even further consideration, Henry realized that he was going to be in a load of trouble with Adam. But the way Frankie was gazing at him, he felt as though he could take on the chancellor himself…. Or perhaps that was just because the portrait of Chancellor Mors was watching them with an accusing glare.
In a rather loaded silence they memorized the location of the strange room on the map, replaced the books on the shelves, and tiptoed out of the library.
When they reached the servants’ quarters, Henry hesitated for a moment, uncertain of what he was expected to do. And then, with the faintest hint of a smile, he gave a suitor’s bow, took Frankie’s hand in his, and gently raised it to his lips.
“Good evening, Miss Winter,” he said. “I hope you sleep well.”
“Oh, very funny,” Frankie muttered, but Henry could see that she was blushing.
23
AN AWKWARD CONFESSION
Henry was nervous that Adam would suspect some- thing the next morning, but a decent night’s sleep had greatly improved his mood.
“How was it, then?” Adam asked as they removed dirty breakfast plates from the dining hall.
“How was what?”
“Your night with Frankie.”
Henry nearly dropped the stack of dishes before he realized what Adam meant. “Fine,” he mumbled. “We found a map in the library. There’s some sort of hidden chamber on the second-floor corridor.”
“Did you go without me?”
Henry shook his head.
“I have a good feeling about tonight,” Adam pressed on.
Henry sighed. “Listen, Adam, there’s something I should tell you,” he began, and then he stopped, as the room had become oddly silent.
One of the Partisan students, a scholarly-looking boy with the white stripes of senior rank on his uniform stood frowning in the doorway. Henry realized miserably that he was the closest to the door. “Aye, compatriot?” he asked.
“I’m looking for Garen,” the boy said haughtily.
“I can fetch him for ye,” Henry said, carrying the stack of plates into the kitchen as the boy followed. Henry yanked the cord that rang for Garen, and then stood there awkwardly, not knowing the protocol. Should he have led the boy into the kitchen? Was it allowed, or was it some egregious breach of etiquette? If anythi
ng, the boy was looking around the kitchen in fascination, taking in the stacks of dirty dishes and the efficient line of girls who were scrubbing them. He watched Henry add his own plates to the girls’ pile.
“Ye look familiar,” the boy said, and Henry stiffened. “Were we in the Morsguard together?”
Henry shook his head.
“No, I think we were,” the boy continued. “What village are you from?”
“Er,” Henry stalled, his heart hammering as he tried to remember the name of a Nordlandic village. And then he recalled the newspaper article he’d read that first afternoon. “Little Septimus.”
“Really?” the boy said. “But yer accent sounds south-westerly.”
Henry blanched, as he’d been unaware that there were regional differences. Well, he thought, he’d need to find a map in the library and memorize the name of a village in the southwest region. “Moved around a lot,” Henry finally answered.
And then he noticed that the boy was playing nervously with a ring he’d absently removed from a trousers pocket. Henry caught a flash of the gold band.
Thankfully, Garen dashed into the kitchen, straightening his waistcoat and trying to look as though he had just been passing by. Garen caught sight of the boy waiting for him and frowned.
“Aye, Compatriot Florian?” Garen asked.
The boy merely gave Garen a significant glance and waited patiently for Henry to take the hint.
“I’ll, er, take my leave if there’s nothin’ else?” Henry asked.
“Henry, isn’t it?” Garen said. “Can ye read?”
Henry nodded cautiously, hoping that wasn’t the wrong answer.
“It would be best if ye took over deliverin’ the post to the teachers’ offices,” Garen said, removing a thin stack of envelopes from his waistcoat. “Names are on the doors. Third floor north. Everyone’s at prayer, so just slide ’em under the doors.”
Henry accepted the envelopes. “Aye, Compatriot Garen,” he said with a curt nod.
As he left the kitchen, he couldn’t help but overhear the boy remark, “A servant from Little Septimus who can read?”
Henry hesitated in the hallway, waiting to hear Garen’s response.
“Ye shouldn’t have come here askin’ after me,” Garen growled, his voice growing louder as the two boys made for the doorway.
Henry dashed down the corridor, not wanting to be caught eavesdropping. He quickly sorted through the small stack of post as he took the stairs to the third floor. He slid the letters beneath the doors to the teachers’ offices, reading their names and subjects off the plaques. He knew that Partisan’s curriculum was similar to Knightley’s—the two schools had been practically identical before the Nordlandic Revolution.
Henry continued down the corridor, reading the subjects off the plaques in fascination. Music, ethics, languages, law, fencing, drills, history … He was so absorbed in thought that he failed to notice that the last door was wide open.
The plaque read ERASMUS MORTENSEN: HISTORY, DEPUTY HEAD OF SCHOOL.
“Is that the post?” a voice called irritably.
Henry jumped guiltily. “Er, aye, Compatriot Erasmus,” he said.
“Well, bring it here.” The history teacher sat behind his desk wearing a somber suit and a deep frown. His scholar’s cap sat upside down on a stack of papers. He was perhaps in his midforties, though the gray streaks through his beard made him seem older. The lights were turned low, and he massaged his temples as though they pained him enormously.
“D’ye need anything fer that headache, sir?” Henry asked, gingerly placing the post on the edge of the desk. The teacher reached for the letters, giving them a cursory glance before placing them beneath his cap, still unopened.
“It will pass,” Compatriot Erasmus said. And then he glanced at Henry for the first time, and a flicker of surprise passed over his face. “What’s yer name, boy?”
“Henry,” he said nervously.
The teacher continued to stare.
“D’ye need somethin’ else?” Henry asked, edging toward the doorway.
The teacher shook his head, and then winced, raising a hand to his temple. On his hand was a gold ring.
When Henry returned from delivering the letters, Garen set him and Adam to polishing the banisters for the rest of the afternoon.
“Where were you?” Adam asked, giving the polish a dubious sniff.
“Delivering post to the professors,” Henry said. While they polished, he told Adam about the strange conversation between Garen and the student Florian.
“Maybe they’re cousins,” Adam suggested.
Henry hadn’t considered that. It was possible, since the students at Partisan were selected from a sort of student scouts called the Morsguard, but somehow he doubted it.
“They don’t look a thing alike,” Henry protested. “And he was nervous about something. He kept fiddling with this ring, but he didn’t have a mark on his hand from wearing one.” Henry looked both ways down the empty corridor and dropped his voice before explaining what had happened when he’d visited Compatriot Erasmus’s office.
“It was really bizarre,” Henry said. “He acted as though he recognized me. Both of them did. Florian even thought we’d been in the Morsguard together.”
“Either they recognized you from the Inter-School Tournament or else you’ve got a Nordlandic twin,” Adam suggested.
Henry grimaced. And then, on some invisible symbol, the doors to the classrooms opened and students spilled out into the corridor, stowing books in their satchels, talking loudly and joking.
One of the boys, who was bespectacled and a bit portly, nearly tripped over the bottle of polish. “Beg yer pardon,” he called over his shoulder as Henry lunged for the bottle, catching it just in time.
Henry shook his head at the close call and continued polishing the banister as the students surged past.
“You were about to tell me something earlier,” Adam said.
“Oh. Right.” Henry supposed that it was as good a time as any. “Don’t get upset.”
“Why would I get upset?” Adam asked suspiciously.
Henry sighed.
“We’re stuck here forever, aren’t we?” Adam asked.
“No, it’s nothing like that.” Henry worked furiously to buff a scratch off the banister. “It’s to do with Frankie. We, well, … Last night, when we were in the library, we sort of kissed.” He winced, and then snuck a look at Adam, who had dropped the polish rag.
“You sort of kissed?” Adam said incredulously. “How can you ‘sort of’ kiss?”
“We kissed,” Henry admitted.
Adam went very quiet. He folded the polish rag, and then unfolded it, and then nodded his head. “How was it?” he asked, his voice small.
“Surprising,” Henry said. “And then it was really nice—incredible, actually.”
“I liked her first,” Adam moaned.
“I know. I’m sorry, Adam. It just happened.”
“Well, make it un-happen.”
“I can’t,” Henry snapped. “And furthermore, I don’t want to.”
“So you like her,” Adam stated.
Henry nodded.
“Well, you could have bloody said something.” Adam snarled.
“I didn’t know I liked her until she kissed me,” Henry retorted.
“She kissed you?”
“The second time,” Henry confirmed.
“Polish the bloody banister yourself.” Adam threw down the rag and stalked off in the direction of the servants’ stairs. Henry sighed as he watched Adam go. He’d been afraid Adam would react badly, and he felt horrible, as though he’d betrayed their friendship somehow. He waited a few minutes, giving Adam time to cool off, and then he gathered the basket of rags and polish and went after his best friend.
Adam was hunched over on the stone steps of the servants’ staircase, his chin in his hands. “Go away,” he muttered.
“No,” Henry said, sitting down next to him. �
��I understand that you had feelings for her, but you keep saying you had this prior claim, that you liked her first, and that’s not really fair. I’m the one who met her first, if that counts for anything. And liking someone isn’t straightforward. I’d never even talked to a girl before—well, a girl who wasn’t a kitchen maid. I didn’t even realize we were being too familiar until Grandmother Winter came to stay.”
“I bet she liked you all along,” Adam muttered.
Henry couldn’t resist. “Who, Grandmother Winter?”
Adam snorted. But they both knew what he’d meant.
“She said that she did,” Henry confessed. “Apparently she didn’t really need help with French. She just wanted to hear me read French poetry.”
“Girls,” Adam said, shaking his head. “Oh, and one more thing. I am not a chaperone. So no canoodling in front of me. I’ll vomit.”
“Got it,” Henry said, fighting to keep a straight face. “No canoodling.”
“Oi, watch it,” Adam warned, climbing to his feet. “Because I’m strongly resisting the urge to punch you in the face right about now.”
24
THE FIRST RESCUE
Henry was setting places in the dining hall when the tall, formidable woman arrived at the entrance to the Partisan School, demanding to be let inside. He was in the kitchens, slicing meat pies, when Compatriot Erasmus, the deputy head of school, showed the woman into his office, despite his pounding headache. And he was clearing the main course from the dining hall when Compatriot Erasmus followed the woman down the stairs to the foyer, hoping Dimit Yascherov wouldn’t blame him for the spectacle.
But news of a spectacle in the castle traveled fast. Henry and Adam had just come into the kitchen to deposit stacks of plates when a maid appeared in the doorway, out of breath and wringing her apron in her hands.
Everyone looked up.
“Ye should come an’ see this,” the maid said, her cheeks shining. “There’s a grand lady in the foyer what wants her runaway maid back. She’s a right terror.”
Before Cook could protest, the maids and serving boys had abandoned their posts. Henry looked at Adam and shrugged. They might as well go along. After all, they didn’t want to draw any unnecessary attention. They trailed after the rest of the serving staff, but when they reached the foyer, Henry wished they could turn around and head back toward the kitchen.
The Secret Prince Page 24
