A Crystal of Time (The School for Good and Evil The Camelot Years #2) - Soman Chainani Page 0,127

gave her a permanently suspicious expression.

“We’re looking for Dean Brunhilde,” said Hort, lowering his voice to sound more imposing. “Is she in?”

The woman crossed her arms tighter. The only sounds were the snip, snip of a gardener, pruning the hedges next to the stairs, and the slup, slup of a cleaner on a ladder, scrubbing the school’s gray stone.

“Dean Brunhilde of Arbed House,” Nicola clarified.

Snip, snip. Slup, slup.

Hort cleared his throat. “Um . . .”

“Do you have an appointment?” the woman asked.

“Well—” Nicola started.

“I’m the Headmistress of this school and seeing a Dean requires an appointment,” the woman cut in. “Particularly for children from other kingdoms, pretending to look like they belong in this one. What school do you attend? Are you even Evers?”

Hort and Nicola exchanged glances, unsure whose turn it was to lie.

“We’ve had a string of attacks in Foxwood. The whole Woods is under assault by rebels. Good people have died,” the woman said, hot with emotion. “The king has ordered all citizens to report suspicious activity to the Camelot guards—”

“Mother, I’m taking Caleb to play rugby in the park,” a voice breezed, and Hort lifted his eyes to a strapping boy with curly brown hair in a Foxwood school uniform, sixteen or seventeen, ushering his younger brother, also in uniform, past the woman and out of the school. He whispered into his mother’s ear. “Started crying during his history class. They were learning about Camelot’s knights and well, you know . . .”

“I can hear you,” sniffled Caleb, his cheeks pink.

“Be home before seven, Cedric,” said the woman tightly. “Your father’s making supper and I don’t want you and Caleb out when it’s dark.”

“Now you’re sounding like Aunt Grisella,” Cedric sighed, brushing by Hort and Nicola, hugging his brother to his side. “Maybe we’ll pick up a meat pie on the way home.” He peeked back at his mother. “If Father’s making supper.”

A smile cracked through the woman’s hard features as she watched her two sons go, her eyes softening, then turning mournful. She noticed Hort and Nicola still standing there and her imperious stiffness returned. “The school is closed for the day. You may write my office to schedule an appointment with Dean Brunhilde for a future date. Now please leave before I call the king’s guards,” she said, scuttling past them and down the stairs. Hort watched her accost the gardener—

“Caleb and Cedric went to the park. Keep an eye on them,” she told him quietly, handing the gardener a few silver coins.

“Cedric’s a grown man, Mistress Gremlaine,” he said. “He don’t need me over his shoulder—”

She squeezed his arm. “Please.”

The man searched her face. “Of course, miss,” he said, gently. He slipped the coins back in her hand. “If I was in your shoes, I’m sure I’d do the same.”

He put down his shears and hustled after the boys, while Mistress Gremlaine stayed behind, that mournful gaze returning. . . .

She frowned suddenly and swiveled towards the school steps, the door still open at the top, just as she’d left it.

But Hort and Nicola were no longer there.

“DID YOU HEAR what that man said? He called her Mistress Gremlaine,” Nicola whispered as they scurried through the entrance hall of the school, Hort peeping back nervously to make sure the woman wasn’t following them.

“So what?” Hort said, lost in the maze of musty corridors and spiral staircases. “How do we know which one goes to the dorms—”

“So what? Lady Gremlaine was Tedros’ steward at Camelot!” Nicola reminded him. “Suppose this Gremlaine’s related to her!”

“Doesn’t help us get Rhian off the throne, so stop playing Detective Nic and start looking for a way to Arbed House,” said Hort, peering into deserted classrooms, reeking of sweat and mildew. He sneezed, his eyes watering from the veils of dust. On the outside, the Foxwood School for Boys looked like an elegant cathedral, the hedges pruned, the gray stone polished, but on the inside it felt like a decrepit church, the floorboards creaking, the walls covered in mold, and cracked plaques offering dubious advice: “HEADS UP AND FALL IN LINE”; “FOLLOW THE LEADER”; “RULES ARE THE SPICE OF LIFE.” Growing up, he’d thought of Foxwood as obscenely rich, given its steel trade, but clearly none of that wealth was going towards boys’ education. Even the old schoolhouse in Bloodbrook, the poorest realm in the Woods, was in better shape. It’s what he hated about Evers, Hort thought, recalling the workers sprucing up the school’s facade: so much of