The Secret Prince (11 page)

The maid frowned at Henry and Adam when she opened the door to the Headmaster’s house.

“Is someone expecting you two?”

“Yes, we’re here to see Professor Stratford,” Henry said.

“Well, come on, then,” she said, and sniffed, acting
rather put out. She marched through the foyer and made a sharp left, leading them up a servants’ staircase.

Henry rolled his eyes, and Adam pulled a face at the maid’s back. There weren’t many students who turned up at the headmaster’s front door, and apparently Ellen didn’t appreciate the interruption—or the mud that Henry and Adam tracked in from crossing the quadrangle, no matter how carefully they wiped their feet. Hence her insistence on sending them up the servants’ staircase.

With a satisfied grin Ellen straightened her apron and knocked on the door to Professor Stratford’s study.

“Come in,” the professor called, but when he saw Henry and Adam, his eyebrows knitted together in confusion. “Good heavens, is the cricket match over already?”

“It just started,” Adam said. “Rohan’s playing.”

Professor Stratford extracted his pocket watch from beneath an overturned—and, thankfully, empty—teacup on his desk, and frowned. “You’re two hours early.”

“Frankie told us to come around noon,” Henry said, realizing belatedly that she’d given him the wrong hour on purpose, knowing that Henry would miss cheering
on his friends’ cricket match, and that Rohan wouldn’t be able to come.

“We could, er, come back later?” Adam suggested.

“No, no, I wasn’t doing anything of great importance,” Professor Stratford said, closing a thick book on his desk. “Thank you, Ellen, and if you could bring up the tea?”

With an indignant sniff the maid slammed the door behind her.

“She thinks I’m messy on purpose,” Professor Stratford said sheepishly. “Because she ruined my best jacket in the laundry.”

“She thinks we track in mud,” Adam said, shrugging.

“We
do
track in mud,” said Henry. Adam shot him a look.

“Well, don’t just stand there,” Professor Stratford said, waving toward the two squashy horribly floral armchairs across from his desk. “Sit down and tell me everything.”

Henry removed a stack of magazines from one of the chairs and placed them on the corner of the professor’s desk. Professor Stratford
was
messy, but it was an absentminded, endearing sort of chaos. He lost track of
things—newspaper articles he meant to save, teacups, cuff links. Remembering these quirks, Henry realized that he missed his former tutor immensely.

“I should have come round sooner,” Henry mumbled. “Nonsense, my boy. It’s only Saturday. Although I’d like to hear an explanation for that bruise.”

Henry reflexively brought his hand up to the fading purple patch beneath his right eye. “It was an accident,” he said, shrugging.

“An accident like what happened down that alleyway near the bookshop?” the professor asked mildly.

“No!” Henry said. “She didn’t mean to …” Henry trailed off, miserable at having given away the identity of his assailant.

“I see,” Professor Stratford said, the corner of his lip twitching as though he found the whole thing just as funny as Henry’s classmates had.

“Did you know that we’re quite popular now?” Adam asked eagerly.

Professor Stratford raised an eyebrow and turned to Henry for confirmation.

“It’s true,” Henry said. “Rohan’s been on a quest for us to become friends with the other boys in our year. He’s tired of being an outsider.”

“And how about you boys? Are you tired of being outsiders as well?” asked Professor Stratford.

“I’m not certain,” Henry answered truthfully. “I thought I liked everything the way it stood, but then I had supper with Derrick Marchbanks and Conrad Flyte and it felt as though I were truly a student at Knightley, not just someone allowed to attend classes.”

Professor Stratford nodded, his expression thoughtful. “Marchbanks and Flyte?” he murmured. “Where have I … Oh, yes, the lord ministers’ sons.”

“Valmont called them ‘Ministerium brats,’ ” Henry said. “What does it matter what their fathers do?”

“Well,” Professor Stratford hedged, “their families are responsible for the laws that forbid combat training.”

“What?” Adam asked, scandalized.

Henry stared at the professor in shock.

“Hadn’t you realized?” Professor Stratford asked. “Ah, apparently not. The title of ‘lord minister’ is hereditary, passed on through the generations along with the responsibility of the post. Lord Marchbanks is the Lord Minister of Foreign Relations, and Lord Flyte is the Lord Minister of Ways and Means, just as their fathers were before them, and just as your friends will be. Ah, come in, Ellen.”

The maid entered with the tea tray, which clattered loudly as she placed it on top of the precarious stack of magazines on Professor Stratford’s desk. Henry leapt up and only just rescued a wayward platter of scones as it surged toward the carpet. Henry gave her a disdainful look as he placed the scones back onto the tray.

“I’d like to see
you
try breakin’ yer back haulin’ tea services up three flights o’ stairs,” Ellen muttered.

At this, Henry, Adam, and Professor Stratford collectively snorted. Ellen bristled, not understanding the joke, and flounced from the room as though she strongly suspected they were making fun of her.

The tea was lovely, though—fresh hot scones with strawberry jam and clotted cream, and a pot of chamomile tea with honey. Adam munched his way enthusiastically through a second scone while Henry filled Professor Stratford in on their first week of classes. When he reached the part about Valmont and Theobold in the common room, the professor seemed oddly troubled by Theobold’s behavior.

“I’m proud of you for that, Henry,” Professor Stratford said, absently stirring his tea with the jam knife. “It is a good man who stands up for his friends, but an honorable man who stands up for his enemies.”

“Who said that?” Henry asked with the hint of a smile, recognizing his old tutor’s trick of sounding as though he were quoting.

“I did, just now,” Professor Stratford returned with a lopsided grin. “And I know you’ve had your differences with Valmont, but he could use some friends.”

“He
has
friends,” Adam muttered through a mouthful of scone.

“Is he playing in the cricket match?” Professor Stratford inquired.

Henry frowned, realizing that Valmont had been absent from trials. James hadn’t invited him.

Professor Stratford nodded knowingly at the boys’ silence. “With popularity comes responsibility,” Professor Stratford said.

“I know,” Henry said miserably, recounting to the professor how he’d accidentally ignored Frankie, and how she’d refused to accept his apology. Adam interrupted a few times, mostly to accuse Rohan of enjoying the debacle. And though Henry was careful to avoid accusing Frankie of deliberately giving them the wrong hour for that afternoon’s visit, Professor Stratford seemed to guess.

“I can tell this is something neither of you wants to hear,” Professor Stratford said, leaning back in his chair,
“but allowances are made for those who
need
them. If you have become friends with your peers, one might wonder why Frankie is still climbing through your dormitory window—and, yes, I know that’s what she was doing.”

“I … well …,” Henry began, at a loss for words. “It was noble of you three to be her friends last term,” the professor continued, “but you need to think carefully here. Do you want to seize this opportunity to fit in, or do you want to mark yourselves as permanent outsiders? Frankie won’t be around forever, but friendships forged during one’s school days are everlasting.”

“You’re on Rohan’s side,” Adam said despairingly. “There are no sides. There’s only what you choose to do,” Professor Stratford gently corrected.

“No, Adam’s right,” Henry said, upset by Professor Stratford’s urging for them to abandon, rather than mend, their broken friendship with Frankie. “There
are
sides, and this isn’t about Frankie. You want us to stay out of trouble and ignore everything that happened last term.”

Professor Stratford pressed his fingers to his temples and closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, he looked tired. “Henry, you are not responsible for what you saw in the Nordlands.”

“I thought the truth was supposed to set you free,”
Henry returned. “But all I see are chains. Don’t be friends with Frankie. Stay out of trouble. Keep to the path and make good marks in school and let the grownups handle things.”

“Those are the best things you can do right now,” Professor Stratford said. “Truly, my boy, I have your best interest at heart. There is nothing preventing you from earning your knighthood. You have this incredible opportunity before you, and I don’t want you to lose it chasing after shadows and rumors.”

“You didn’t seem to mind it last term.”

“Last term, someone was trying to sabotage your every move. You needed every ally you could get, and you had no choice but to fight back.”

“Just because you think you’re out of range doesn’t mean you can’t still be attacked,” Henry said. “It’s like what the fencing master said: The unbeatable attack comes when you imagine yourself to be safe, when you’ve been tricked into letting down your defenses.”

Professor Stratford blanched. “I think you need to tell me what else your professors have been saying,” the professor said, suddenly wary.

“Oh, good. Does this mean you two are no longer fighting?” Adam asked hopefully.

“Barely,” Henry said, his voice strained. “And if you must know, Admiral Blackwood has us doing marching drills for some bloody parade, Lord Havelock’s doing a study of failed revolutions, and Lingua has us reading about Troy.”

Professor Stratford ran a hand over his face and stared solemnly at Henry and Adam. Henry could see that his former tutor was very troubled by this news indeed, and that, in his own excitement over becoming friends with the other boys in his year, Henry had ignored hints of something quite serious.

“It seems I owe you an apology,” the professor said slowly. “I didn’t realize it had already progressed this far. I didn’t know they were preparing you for …”

Henry raised an eyebrow, waiting for the professor to say that horrible, forbidden word.

A knock sounded at the door.

They all jumped.

“Professor? Is my poetry book on your desk?”

“Er, no, Francesca, I don’t see it,” Professor Stratford called back.

“You never
look
properly,” Frankie complained, pushing open the door. When she saw Henry and Adam, she stiffened. “Oh, it’s you two.”

“Good afternoon, Miss Winter,” Henry said, trying to pretend that they’d been having a pleasant, light conversation, possibly about the weather.

“There!” Frankie fairly yelled, pointing an accusing finger at Henry. “You see?
Exactly
like that.” She looked to Professor Stratford, who was suddenly quite preoccupied with his pocket watch.

Henry glared. “Don’t talk to him about me,” he said hotly.

“Don’t make me want to hit you,” Frankie returned.

“Go ahead,” Henry challenged. “Hit a knight. That’s a brilliant plan.”

“You’re not a knight,” Frankie practically screamed. “You’re just an infuriating little boy.”

“Blimey, someone laced her corset too tight,” Adam muttered.

“Stop!”
Professor Stratford said sharply.

Henry flushed guiltily. He hadn’t meant to quarrel in front of the professor, but now that he thought about it, he couldn’t remember why he’d ever wanted to be friends with Frankie in the first place. He didn’t understand her at all.

“You’ve been brought up to behave better than this,” Professor Stratford said, and then, with a glance
in Henry’s direction, he winced a bit at his choice of words. “No more yelling, no more fighting. I don’t care who did what—”

“He kissed my
hand
,” Frankie complained.

“She gave me a
black eye
,” Henry accused.

“I don’t care,” Professor Stratford continued mildly, daring them to interrupt him again. “This is not how ladies and gentlemen conduct themselves, and it needs to end now, before you two wind up scandalizing each other’s reputations and are forced into an ironclad engagement.”

Adam choked.

Henry’s teacup clattered loudly against his saucer. Frankie pouted.

“I’ll take your silence to mean that everything is forgiven and behind you,” Professor Stratford said with a sense of finality. “And now, Francesca, would you care to join us for a short and pleasant visit before our guests depart?”

Frankie shook her head. “No, I’ll—Er, I have some French to finish. Sorry about your eye, Henry.”

“It was an accident,” Henry muttered diplomatically.

“And, Adam?” Frankie said, her hand on the doorknob. “If you ever accuse me of being laced too tightly
again, you’ll wish you didn’t sleep in the bed right next to that ground-floor window….”

With a wicked grin at the look of horror on Adam’s face, she slammed the door.

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