Authors: Violet Haberdasher
Henry’s smile faded. How could he go to tea and lie to the professor about what he’d been up to? Because he certainly couldn’t tell Professor Stratford that he and Valmont had been using a cache of weapons and gathering students to train in combat.
“I, er, don’t think I can make it,” Henry said miserably. “I’m, er, feeling ill. I should probably stay away. Wouldn’t want you to catch it.”
The professor frowned. “As you like. But if you feel better, I really am most curious to know how things are going.”
Henry blanched. Did Professor Stratford suspect
something?
He must,
Henry thought as he muttered a flimsy excuse and left the dining hall, taking the corridor that led to the library.
Once he had settled into a seat in the abandoned library stacks, Henry considered confessing everything to Professor Stratford. After all, the professor was a friend. He doubted Professor Stratford would approve, but then, it wasn’t as though the professor could reprimand Henry for the battle society. After all, the professor certainly believed that sinister things were happening up north, and had for some time. And he knew about what Henry had seen in the Nordlands, and about the slight but ultimately useless changes to the boys’ curriculum…. Perhaps … No. Henry firmly pushed the thought away and opened his copy of
Pugnare
, feeling as though he had deeply disappointed Professor Stratford, and hoping that the damage wasn’t permanent.
When Henry’s vision began to blur from squinting at the pages of
Pugnare
, he put the book back into his satchel and made his way down to the basement, keen to clear the Latin from his head with some target practice, and maybe to try out his new penny darts.
Henry had taken to the bow and arrow in a way he’d never expected; archery cleared his head somehow and made everything simpler. There was less to concentrate on—just his form and his breathing and the target. It wasn’t nearly as exhilarating as fencing, but he preferred it that way. It was easier to imagine an opponent than to see one rushing toward you with a blade poised for attack.
Henry opened the door to the basement and then paused at the top of the landing, listening. Someone was already down there.
“Valmont? Conrad?” he called, as they were the most likely suspects. Everyone else would be off enjoying the freedom of the night after exams.
And then someone yelled out as though in pain. Henry’s heart pounded. “Are you all right?” Henry shouted, taking the stairs two at a time.
The basement came into view, and he stopped and stared.
Frankie stood calmly in the center of the room, holding their best broadsword. She made a fairly decent pass with the weapon and grinned at Henry.
“Oh, help! Help!” she called, throwing in a fake gasp for effect.
“Very funny,” Henry said sourly. “What are you doing here?”
“Followed Conrad after supper and waited until he left,” she bragged. “I knew you lot were up to something, and now you
have
to let me join in or I’ll tell.”
“You’re not joining,” Henry said, clenching his fists.
“Yes, I am,” Frankie insisted. “This isn’t a few of my friends having a laugh,” Henry retorted. “There are more than thirty of us. Second and third years, even. I’m sorry, but they’ll never agree.”
“How do
you
know?” Frankie shot back. “It isn’t as though you’re in charge.”
Henry bit his lip. Frankie stared at Henry in surprise.
“You
are
in charge.”
“Maybe,” Henry said coolly. “Maybe Peter Merrill is, or Geoffrey Sutton. That is, if they’re even members.”
“Oh, is it a secret society now?” Frankie retorted. “How adorable.”
“You’re just jealous.”
“Why would I be jealous?” Frankie shot back. “You’re the ones who are going to die in a war.”
Henry winced.
Frankie’s eyes widened as though she’d immediately
regretted saying it, but too late, the words were out there, floating dangerously.
“I’m sorry,” she muttered, dropping the broadsword, which clattered noisily onto the stone floor.
“Be careful with that,” Henry snapped, retrieving the weapon. “It’s an antique.”
They regarded each other, Henry standing there holding the sword, Frankie nearly in tears. “What happened?” Frankie managed. “How did things get so …”
“Complicated?” Henry supplied.
Miserably Frankie nodded. And with tears spilling down her cheeks, she fled.
Henry watched her go. And then he looked down at the sword he was carrying. When it came to weapons, he thought sadly, sometimes words could be just as hurtful, and just as forbidden.
Adam congratulated himself on successfully begging the last of the chocolate biscuits off Liza. He crammed one into his mouth as he left the kitchens.
“Hmmpgluhh!” Adam called, spotting Frankie coming the opposite direction down the main hallway. He’d meant to say hello, but coherent speech is considerably difficult when one’s mouth is full.
Frankie didn’t say hello back. In fact, she looked horribly upset.
Adam swallowed thickly. “Er, Frankie?”
She glanced up, and Adam could see that she’d been crying. “What?” Frankie asked, giving him a fierce glare.
“Are you all right?”
“No, I am
not
all right. I loathe being stuck at a
boys’
school.”
“Technically you don’t go here,” Adam said helpfully. Her expression plainly showed that it had been the wrong thing to say.
“You’re right. I don’t. And clearly no one wants me around.”
“Well, I do.”
Frankie laughed. “You don’t count.”
“Oi, how come I never count?” Adam asked indignantly.
“Because you’re
part
of it,” Frankie accused. “You and Henry and
Valmont
, I’m sure of it. Oh, I could just scream.”
Before Adam had a chance to react, she flounced away, sniffling. “Girls,” Adam muttered, shaking his head and cramming another biscuit into his mouth.
They were absolutely impossible. Always talking nonsense and getting upset without bothering to explain the problem.
Adam munched the third biscuit slowly, making it last. He’d seen Henry go off to the library after supper. How anyone could spend that much time studying when they already knew all of the answers was completely beyond him. Maybe Henry knew what was the matter with Frankie. And even if he didn’t, he probably wouldn’t mind the interruption.
But when Adam reached the library, Sir Robert was just leaving, his arms full of books.
“A good evening to you, Mr. Beckerman.”
“Good evening, sir,” Adam said. “Er, would you like help with those books?”
Sir Robert smiled. “That would be most welcome. Walk with me, lad.”
Sir Robert’s cane was glossy mahogany that evening, with a brass handle shaped like a dragon. It tapped an echoing staccato down the hallway as they made their way to his office. Adam was so busy admiring the cane that he hardly heard what the professor was saying.
“I’m sorry, sir?”
“I was just saying that Sir Franklin speaks very highly
of you. He says you have a natural talent for ethics.”
“Thank you, sir,” Adam said, flushing from the unexpected compliment.
Sir Robert didn’t say anything else as they crossed the quadrangle.
To Adam’s dismay, Sir Robert had taken over Sir Frederick’s former office. Thankfully, though, the office had been transformed. The shelves were crammed with brass scales, pots of paint, and jars of strange powders. A marble bust of King Victor wore Sir Robert’s fake mustache—and sported an elegant silk top hat tilted at a rakish angle. A large desk was littered with sheet music, rumpled newspapers, and a rather battered violin.
Making a face at the mess, the medicine master removed a violin bow from one of the chairs and tossed it into a nearby umbrella stand. “Sit, sit,” he said, motioning toward the chair. “If you don’t mind, I’d quite like to have a little chat.”
Adam frowned as he took a seat. Professors rarely wanted to speak with him. His marks were average, his penmanship sloppy, and the cleverer students like Henry and Derrick usually beat him to answering the questions he did know.
“No, sir, I don’t mind,” Adam said.
“I haven’t been able to forget those bruises on your arms the other week,” Sir Robert remarked, and although his tone was pleasant, his eyes were sharp. “They didn’t look as though you’d tripped.”
“I did, sir.”
Sir Robert shook his head. “Let us be
honest
, Mr. Beckerman. The coloration, size, and placement of those bruises are not consistent with
tripping
.” Sir Robert paused and raised an eyebrow. “I would deduce that you had been in a fight and taken repeated falls—very neatly, I’ll credit. You distributed your weight over the forearms quite correctly.”
Adam turned crimson. “But—” Sir Robert had it all wrong, Adam thought wretchedly. He tried again. “But, sir, I haven’t been in a fight. I was, er, practicing. Just in case.”
Sir Robert gave him a very severe look. “Practicing for fights? Someone must have threatened you quite roughly, to prompt that.”
“Oh, not at all, sir,” Adam quickly amended. “I’m always talking without thinking. Bound to put my foot in it one day, you know.”
But the medicine master didn’t look convinced. Adam nervously reached for the charm around his
neck—a cheap Whitechapel Market replacement of the heirloom
chai
he used to wear.
“Hmmm,” Sir Robert said. “I’ve seen you taking notes in class, lad, with your pen poised over the right side of the page. You studied at the yeshiva, I presume? Reading the Torah and the Talmud?”
Miserably Adam nodded.
“Your English is quite good,” Sir Robert remarked, watching Adam carefully. “Perfect, in fact. I’d place the dialect as East London.”
“Baker’s Green, sir,” Adam mumbled, nodding. “And we speak English at home, not Yiddish. Please, sir, you’ve got the wrong idea. No one is giving me a hard time about anything.”
“Not even your roommate, whom I seem to remember sporting a black eye and a split lip earlier this term?” Sir Robert asked mildly. “Possibly your doing?”
“Henry? He’s my best friend! We were, er, practicing for fights together.”
“Ah, then it seems I’m mistaken,” Sir Robert said, inclining his head in apology but keeping his eyes trained on Adam. “Although I can’t imagine where you learned that falling technique. Or what possibly prompted the two of you to practice it quite so … thoroughly.”
Adam sighed. He’d just
had
to go see what Henry was up to in the library. And although Sir Robert was clearly just trying to be sympathetic, the new medicine master was far too observant for comfort.
“Just a bit of fun,” Adam said unconvincingly. “And Theobold hates us on principle, so you never know when it could turn out useful.”
Sir Robert raised an eyebrow and steepled his long, pale fingers. “I was at your expulsion hearing, you know,” he said.
“I remember, sir.” Adam dropped his gaze and began to fidget nervously.
“Perhaps I’ve been paying attention to such things because I was most interested in what you said about the Nordlands,” Sir Robert continued. “It takes extraordinary bravery to tell an adult something they don’t want to hear, especially when there is little chance of being believed.”
Adam continued to fidget with the tassels of his scarf, unsure of how to respond.
“Do you have family in the Nordlands?” Sir Robert inquired.
“Cousins.” He hadn’t told anyone, and instantly regetted the confession. “We don’t really—I mean, it’s
difficult to know how they’re doing, since Chancellor Mors stopped letting post through the border.”
“But probably not well,” Sir Robert finished.
“Probably not well,” Adam agreed. “But that can be said about anyone who doesn’t fit the chancellor’s idea of ‘pure Nordlandic stock.’ I mean, it’s bloody horrible up there, sir. Doesn’t matter if you’re Jewish or believe in the thirtieth flying prophet or have skin the color of cabbage.”
“Do you know what I think, Mr. Beckerman?” Sir Robert mused. “I think you are going to be a very unusual knight, and I also think that there’s no possible way you and Mr. Grim were practicing to fight anyone at this school. You carry the marks of rebellion, boy. Hide them well, and cover your tracks. Something to think about, hmmm? Now off with you.”
When Adam returned to his room, Henry was just unpacking his satchel.
“Where’s Rohan?” Adam asked.
“Common room,” Henry said, and then looked up and caught Adam’s expression. “What’s wrong?”
“Sir Robert wanted to have a talk with me.” Adam made a face. “Seemed to think I was a long way from the yeshiva and getting beaten up by my classmates.”
“Beaten up?”
“The bruises. You know.” Adam shrugged. “But now I think he’s on to us, with the battle society. I think he’s glad.”
“Glad?” Henry kicked off his boots and flopped onto his bed, not bothering to remove his jacket or tie. The commotion in the common room seeped through their door, filling the silence.
“He’s a strange bloke, that Sir Robert. I think he wants to help.”
“Well, he can’t,” Henry said sourly. “And we don’t need a mentor. Remember what happened last time?”
“Sir Robert isn’t Sir Frederick.”
“For all that
we
know,” Henry said darkly.
“He was concerned!” Adam shot back. “My arms were all banged up. He just wanted to make sure I wasn’t being bullied.”
“Or so he said.”
“Oi, what is your
problem
right now?”
“Nothing. Sorry.” Henry ran a hand over his face. “Frankie. I don’t know. Nothing.”
“What
about
Frankie? Is that why she was crying?”
“She was crying?” Henry asked.
“Why, what did you say to her?” Adam asked suspiciously.
“Nothing! It’s what
she
said to
me
. I found her down in the basement, swinging around a broadsword.”
Adam snorted. “You’re joking.”
“Wish I were,” Henry said. “She’d followed Conrad and wanted to join the battle society. I told her she couldn’t.”
“Why’d you say that?” Adam asked indignantly.