"Neither do I," Henry admitted. "But I wouldn't waste my time thinking about it."
Their schedules blocked the next hour as free before supper. Suddenly, the enormity of the day seemed like a pressing weight upon Henry's shoulders. He felt exhausted.
"Coming back to the room?" Rohan asked.
"In a while," Henry said.
Through a window outside Lord Havelock's classroom, Henry could see sunlight streaming across the quadrangle, beckoning him outdoors.
The sunlight was as warm and inviting as it looked. Henry tilted his face upward as he traipsed through the grass, his mind a mess of that day's classes, of Valmont's taunts and Rohan's shy friendliness and Adam's inability to keep his mouth shut, even in front of the terrifying Lord Havelock.
At the other end of the quadrangle, beyond the rather pathetic hedge maze, was a stone bench dappled with sunshine. Henry sprawled gratefully onto the bench, closing his eyes.
After being continuously surrounded by other students for the past twenty-four hours, it was immensely satisfying to be alone, with no one staring at him curiously, no constant pressure to prove himself.
"Sir Henry Grim," Henry murmured, reassuring himself. It was all worth it for that.
And then someone giggled.
Henry opened one eye.
The headmaster's daughter leaned against the nearest tree, a book under her arm, laughing at him. Her white frock was covered with bits of twigs, and the bow in her hair had come untied.
"Oh, er, hello," Henry said, surging to his feet. You were always to stand in the presence of a lady, he knew.
"So who's Sir Henry Grim?" the girl asked.
Henry reddened.
"Um, no one. I mean, just me. Well, not yet, but--"
"I'm Frankie," she said, calmly picking a bramble off her skirts. "Don't call me Francesca. It's a perfectly horrible name. I like yours, though, rather a lot. It doesn't sound nearly as formidable as it should for a Knightley student."
That, Henry thought miserably, is the problem. He sighed.
"What are you doing?" Frankie pressed.
"Thinking," Henry said. "What are you reading?"
Frankie hid the book behind her dress. "Nothing."
"Well, sorry for asking," Henry said, nettled.
Frankie stared at Henry a moment, considering him. Finally, she said, "Promise not to tell?"
"I promise."
"Do you swear?"
"I already gave you my word. Code of Chivalry and all that. Either tell me or don't. I've only got an hour free and I don't want to waste it."
Frankie showed him the cover. It was an ordinary Latin textbook.
"So?" Henry said. "It's just a textbook. I had the same one last year."
"Are you dense?" Frankie snorted. "Do you think girls learn the same things as boys?"
"Well, of course not. You learn embroidery and painting and poetry. Those sorts of--" Henry stopped midsentence, realization dawning. "You stole that?"
Frankie shrugged. "I'm going to return it. Besides, no one will miss it. I just swiped it from an empty classroom."
Henry couldn't stop a broad smile from creeping across his face.
"What's funny?" Frankie asked.
"I used to do the same thing," Henry said, realizing that textbook stealing seemed to be a habit among Professor Stratford's pupils of late. "And anyway, if you want to learn Latin, just ask Professor Stratford. He won't mind."
"How do you know my tutor's name?" Frankie accused, taking a few curious steps toward Henry.
"He used to be my tutor," Henry said. "After he caught me stealing textbooks. Although mine was Milton, not a Latin primer."
Henry made a face at the thought.
"He'd really teach me? And other things too? Like history and ... classics?"
Henry shrugged. "I don't see why not." And then he told Frankie about Professor Stratford and the Midsummer School, the only interruption being when Frankie delightedly shrieked, "He does fall asleep at breakfast!"
"So how about you?" Henry asked, tucking his feet onto the bench and clasping his hands around his knees. "I mean, it's not the best luck to be stuck at a boys' school for the year."
"Nowhere would have me," Frankie said proudly. "I've been kicked out of three finishing schools already."
"What for?"
Frankie grinned. "See, that's the problem with people. Everyone's always too polite to ask what I've done. But anyway, Headmistress Hardwicke at the Maiden Manor School for Young Ladies dismissed me over embroidery."
"Embroidery?" Henry didn't think he'd heard correctly.
"Madame did say we could embroider the cushions with whatever words we wished. How was I to know she didn't mean it?"
"What did you write?" Henry asked.
Frankie told him.
Henry choked. "You're joking."
"Not at all. And it looked so lovely displayed on a chair in the school parlor."
"You didn't!" Henry laughed.
"Well, it worked, didn't it? No more of those prissy, proper girls who talk only about the weather and their suitors, as if I could care."
Before they knew it, the sunlight was slanting toward the hedge maze, leaving the bench to cool in the shadows. The sound of the chapel bells ringing startled them both.
"Blast," Henry cried, standing up and brushing off his uniform. "Did you know the time?"
"Maybe," Frankie said, grinning evilly. "Loosen up, Grim. Be tardy. Who cares?"
"Have you met Lord Havelock?" Henry asked, gathering his books.
"You mean Count Dracula?"
"He's head of my year."
Frankie swore.
"Go! Run like breaking wind," she called.
"I thought it was 'Run like the wind.' "
"It's funnier my way," she said cheerfully.
And if Henry hadn't already been sprinting back toward his room, he would have agreed.
THE QUEST FOR STRAWBERRY TARTS
Girls are rubbish," Adam said over supper, dismissing Henry's story about the headmaster's daughter. "Trust me, I've got two sisters."
"All they talk about are their gowns and the weather," Rohan agreed, forking up a mound of mashed potatoes. "And they giggle at everything you say, even if it's not funny."
"Well, Frankie didn't," Henry protested. "I don't know. She's lonely. We should visit her during free hour."
Rohan dropped his fork.
"Are you mad?" Rohan asked. "You can't just visit girls. It's not proper. It's not done."
"Yeah, mate," Adam said. "You need chaperones, and her family has to approve of yours and all that rubbish."
"Just to visit?"
"You can't visit girls," Rohan hissed.
"Fine. I get it," Henry said crossly, letting the subject drop.
After a late night spent studying military history, no one was in a very good mood the next morning.
Henry swayed sleepily as he bent over his prayer register an hour after sunrise, his eyes red and scratchy. His brain begged for another hour's sleep, and the lull of the pipe organ made it hard not to give in.
Beside him in the pew, Adam gave a small snort. Henry elbowed him.
"Wake up," Henry murmured.
"Just resting my eyes," Adam muttered, slumping lower.
Rohan stepped on Adam's foot, jolting him awake.
"Thanks, mate," Adam said, straightening his shoulders.
That morning's sermon went on for ages. Henry's stomach, the only part of him that was fully awake, grumbled.
And then, up front, the chapel echoed with a sneeze.
"God bless you, my child," the priest said, and then returned to his sermon.
Another sneeze. And another.
Everyone looked around, trying to see who was dying of a cold.
Another sneeze.
The sermon had stopped.
Henry, now wide awake, began to grin.
"What's funny?" Adam asked as the priest resumed his sermon, only to be interrupted o
nce more by a bellowing sneeze.
"Frankie," Henry said.
Adam and Rohan followed his gaze. Sure enough, with an apologetic grin, Frankie had wrapped herself in a shawl, as though cold. But she wasn't fooling Henry. He rather suspected that, before embroidery, Frankie had been kicked out of finishing school for sneezing.
Later that morning, in languages, Professor Lingua, a small round man with small round glasses and fingers like fat sausages, frowned at his bookshelf.
"I could have sworn I had twenty-five copies of Novice Latin, not twenty-four," he murmured. "In any case, we'll begin with French. I'm sure many of you have already studied Latin and Greek, the backbone of a gentleman's education, but French--before girls learned it to sound pretty--was the language of politics. And it is still the preferred language by many of our neighboring nations for diplomatic discussions."
Professor Lingua strutted across the front of the classroom, his sizable stomach swelling beneath his waistcoat.
"Bet you he pops a button before class is over," Adam whispered.
"I wouldn't be surprised," Henry murmured.
"Gentlemen!" Professor Lingua called, frowning at Adam and Henry. "Is there something you wish to share? In French perhaps?"
"Pardon, mais non, Monsieur Lingua," Henry apologized.
"Tu parles francais, garcon?" Professor Lingua demanded, an accusing finger directing all attention toward Henry.
Henry gulped. "Un peu, monsieur."
"More than 'a little,' from the sound of it," Professor Lingua said.
Henry turned red.
"Yes, sir."
"And Latin?" Professor Lingua asked.
Henry nodded.
"Greek? Italian?"
Henry nodded again.
"Both or just the one?"
"Both, sir," Henry said.
"I see," Professor Lingua said coolly, as though he did not see at all. He picked up his class register. "Name, please."
"Henry Grim, sir."
"Well, Mr. Grim, I'll make a note to expect flawless work from you. One wrong answer or improperly conjugated verb in any language I teach and you'll redo the entire assignment during your free hour, understood?"
"Yes, sir."
Henry slumped his forehead into his palm, wishing he'd kept his mouth shut.
"Anyone else speak French?" Professor Lingua demanded.
Silence.
"As I thought. Repeat after me: 'Bonjour, monsieur.' "
"Bonjour, monsieur," the class chanted.
"Bonjour, madame," the professor prompted.
***
"Bad luck," Adam said after class let out.
"It was your fault," Henry accused.
"Well, I was right though, he did pop a button during 'mare-see bo-koop.' "
"You don't pronounce the p at the end," Henry said irritably.
"Bloody French," Adam muttered. "It sounds like a donkey blowing its nose."
Henry laughed. "That's just Professor Lingua's accent," he said. "Oh, hello, Valmont. Eavesdropping again?"
Valmont scowled. "You think you're so special, don't you, Grim?"
"Not at all," Henry said airily. "But you are, aren't you? Sir Frederick's little helper. I do hope he shows us all how to do a full body cast today."
Adam snorted. "Yeah, you're not afraid of needles, are you, Valmont?"
Valmont paled.
"Poke, poke," Adam said.
"Stop!" Valmont didn't look nearly so confident now.
"Poke, poke, poke," Adam threatened, his finger extended menacingly.
"Oh, grow up," Valmont snarled, "and it's ethics this afternoon, not medicine." And with that, Valmont stalked off toward Theobold.
The week progressed, as weeks tend to do. Henry and his roommates lived for medicine, where they delighted in Valmont's humiliating punishment to serve as the professor's demonstration dummy. They studied late into the night for military history, puzzled through parables for ethics, and Henry checked everyone's homework for languages.
More than once, some boys in their year caught Henry's eye during meals, or seemed to linger outside the door to his room, but they always pretended it had been an accident.
Probably they wanted help with French, Henry thought. But Theobold, with his signet ring, mocking drawl, and older brother as third-year monitor, had fast become the king of their year--with Valmont as his ever-eager second in command. They lorded over the common room, with its battered chess sets and checkerboards, as though it was their own personal sitting room. And of course, under the reign of Theobold the Great, speaking to Henry and his roommates was forbidden. Even though some boys may have been desperate for help with French, they didn't quite dare to ask. And so long as they let Theobold control them like that, Henry wasn't offering.
"I'm starving," Adam complained one evening, while they reviewed the credit and banking system of the Knights Templar. "Can't we take a break?"
Adam was hunched over his desk, chewing his pen as though he hoped it held some nutritious value. Henry and Rohan sat side by side on the floor, making a chart. They looked up.
"Have you gotten to chapter seven yet?" Henry asked.
"I've glanced at it," Adam said. "Sort of. Why, how far are you lot?"
"We're doing a chart of names and dates," Rohan said with a frustrated sigh. "We've already finished the reading."
"Well it's not my fault I got bogged down with the French," Adam accused. "If you'd only have--"
"I'm not doing it for you," Henry said, frowning at his and Rohan's chart. "You have to learn this stuff. What happens when you meet a foreign dignitary and the only thing you know how to say is 'Bonjour, madame'?"
"I reckon he'll ask if I need glasses."
Henry snorted.
"I could use a break too," Rohan admitted. "Think we could pay off someone in the kitchens to give us a snack?"
This was how, three hours after supper, Henry, Adam, and Rohan found themselves sneaking down the corridor that led to the kitchens. Rohan's pockets jingled with each step, and Henry wished his friend would stop paying people to do things for him. Good manners went just as far as good money, in any case.
"I hope they have some leftover strawberry tarts. Those were excellent," Adam said.
"I hope we don't get detentions," Henry muttered.
And then they heard voices. The three friends stopped.
"You don' go believin' that the evenin' curfew in the Nordlands is fer everyone's own good, do ye?"
"Y'mean it isn't?"
"'Course it isn't, Mary, you dunner. Chancellor Mors has a reason fer keepin' people off the streets. A secret reason."
It was two servants gossiping just around the corner, Henry saw, peeking around the bend. Two kitchen maids, and from the looks of them, they knew exactly where the strawberry tarts were kept.
"Er, excuse me--," Henry began politely.
The younger of the two maids stared at him in horror, wringing her apron in her hands.
"Oh! Forgive us fer gossipin', sir. We don' mean no harm and we wasn't s'posed to be doin' anythin' else. Honest."
Henry almost laughed. At the Midsummer School, he'd been bossed around and piled with extra work from the kitchen staff, and now they were terrified of him.
He looked down at his uniform--the sleeves of his shirt rolled, his tie loose and flapping. It didn't matter if his uniform was in tatters; it still bore the crest of Knightley Academy and the stripes that showed how many years away he was from earning his knighthood.
"I believe you," Henry said, enjoying the new sensation of being treated as though he were respectable. "Really. My friends and I were just wondering, if it isn't any trouble, if there might be some of those tarts left from supper."
"The strawberry ones," Adam called from around the corner. "The peach are rubbish."
"I thought the peach were quite nice," Rohan protested.
Henry resisted the urge to roll his eyes. It figured that his friends, who had been the ones to drag
him to the kitchens, were shy of the servants.
Well, fine, Henry thought, and anyway, he was actually enjoying this. The kitchen maids' eyes widened at the sound of Rohan's posh accent.
"Please?" Henry asked. "If it isn't any trouble."
"Well bless 'is soul, Mary. You ever heard one o' these boys ask fer sumthin' so polite?"
Mary, still in shock, shook her head.
"O' course there's some tarts left fer the likes o' you. Tell yer friends to stop hidin' an' follow me."
"Thank you," Henry said with feeling, hoping Rohan would learn a thing or two.
Adam and Rohan emerged sheepishly from around the corner.
"Haven't got any cream for the strawberry tarts, have you?" Adam asked brightly as Rohan elbowed him. "Owww, what'd you do that for?"
Henry smiled reassuringly at the kitchen maid. "I'm Henry, and these are Adam and Rohan."
"Well, pleased t'make yer acquaintance. I'm Liza."
Henry shot his friends a look.
"How do you do, Liza?" they mumbled.
"Not bad," she cackled, having a grand old time. "Not bad atall. Now yeh wanted what kind o' tarts? Raspberry?"
"Strawberry," Adam whimpered.
"Jus' jokin'," Liza said, clearly pleased with herself. "Follow me."
It was strange, Henry thought, as he sat at a stool in the kitchen between his two friends, drinking milk and munching tarts. There was a whole separate world going on at Knightley, parallel to his own. A world of cooking and cleaning and gossiping to pass the time, so similar to what he had known as a servant boy.
And how quickly he had forgotten all of it now that he had a set of textbooks to call his own. Henry wondered after the boy his own age who had helped with Rohan's trunk on their first afternoon. Did that boy wish he were a knight? Had he sat the exam in the City with Adam and Rohan, his score high but not high enough?
Until he had startled Liza and Mary in the hallway, Henry hadn't realized that he was homesick--that he had anything to be homesick about. But he was, and he did.
He missed being able to be invisible, and his favorite windowsill where he read books in the dappled sunlight, and the way, after a late-night tutoring session, Professor Stratford would clap a hand on his shoulder and say, "Well, g'night, my boy."
Henry sighed into his tart.
"Aww, poor little deary," Liza said thickly, as she had also treated herself to a few tarts. "Wha's the matter?"
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