his seat, a look of smug triumph on his face.

“… Henry Grim.”

Instead of filling with applause, the hall remained silent. The Midsummer School for Boys had fifteen students per year, and every boy there could tell you that no one in year eight was named Henry. Valmont’s look of triumph had changed to one of unbelieving rage.

And then, in the awkward silence, Professor Stratford stood up at the High Table and began to cheer. “Huzzah, Henry, m’boy! I knew you could do it! Get up here!”

Shocked, Henry walked numbly forward.

There was no applause, just whispers and accusing stares. Henry didn’t dare to look over at Valmont again.

Henry approached the lectern, and Sir Frederick smiled, stuck out his hand for a brief handshake, and gave Henry the envelope containing book lists and school instructions.

“Is it my imagination,” Sir Frederick mused, “or is there a decided lack of congratulations?”

“It’s not your imagination, sir,” Henry muttered, his face growing hot.

Professor Stratford sank back into his chair, his silence heavy with meaning.

“Ahem,” Headmaster Hathaway said, his mustache twitching in fury. “Might I see the three of you in my study? Now.”

Henry had never been in Headmaster Hathaway’s study, and for this he was thankful. The room was large and filled with expensive-looking sets of books, their spines immaculate, as though they had never been read. Most of the room was occupied by a large, imposing desk and three chairs.

One of the maids had lit a fire in the grate, which blazed hellishly, enveloping the room in stifling, smoky heat.

Henry ran a finger around the inside of his collar, trying not to sweat. There were only three chairs. He stood against the back wall as Professor Stratford, Sir Frederick, and Headmaster Hathaway settled into the seats.

The dangerous silence held, and then suddenly broke as Headmaster Hathaway exploded. “What is the meaning of this?”

“The meaning, Headmaster?” Sir Frederick said calmly. “I should think that would be self-evident. Young Henry here has passed. Congratulations to you all!”

“But this is absurd!” the headmaster thundered, his face a horrible shade of puce. He took a few calming breaths. “I mean, this boy is not a student; he is a servant.”

“He’s a resident of the school,” Professor Stratford put in. “And as a resident was eligible to take the exam.”

“No doubt this is your doing,” the headmaster accused, his finger pointed at the young professor in warning.

“Yes,” Professor Stratford said. “I told him to sit the exam.”

“No, he didn’t,” Henry interrupted. “It was my idea. The professor didn’t—”

“Hold your tongue, boy!” Headmaster Hathaway roared.

Henry nodded meekly.

“Nevertheless, the boy has passed,” Sir Frederick said. “With very high marks, I might add. We would be happy to have him. I don’t understand the trouble.”

“Servants,” Headmaster Hathaway said, straining to keep calm. “Do. Not. Become. Knights.”

“I’ll admit it is a bit unusual,” Sir Frederick conceded. “But then, so is Henry. And for a servant, he’s remarkably educated.”

Professor Stratford slumped in his chair, chewing nervously on the corner of his mustache.

“Jonathan Stratford!” the headmaster boomed.

“Yes, sir?” Professor Stratford gave the headmaster an innocent stare, although a telltale wisp of his mustache was darker than the rest.

“Have you been helping this boy?”

Henry had never before heard the word “help” sound so contemptible.

“I have been tutoring him in the evenings, yes.”

“So you decided to help a servant pass the exam while you let all of your students fail?” the headmaster accused.

“Now hold on a minute. You can’t blame me for Valmont and Harisford and the rest.”

“I most certainly can, and I will,” Headmaster Hathaway roared. “In fact, I think it would be a very good idea if you resigned. Today.”

“You can’t be serious,” Professor Stratford protested, but they could all see that the headmaster meant what he had said. “Fine. You have my resignation. I’ll pack my things directly.”

With a sidelong glance at Henry, Professor Stratford strode toward the door and threw it open, his footsteps echoing along the hallway.

“Have a seat, Henry,” Sir Frederick said, motioning toward the empty chair.

“I forbid it,” the headmaster threatened.

“I’m fine standing, sir. Thank you,” Henry said, still in shock.

The last ten minutes had been like something out of a bad dream. He’d passed the exam. Gotten into Knightley. But it didn’t feel exciting or wonderful. It was horrible. Professor Stratford had practically been fired for helping him—and why? Because awful boys who didn’t deserve to go to Knightley in the first place had been rejected. Henry didn’t know what to think. He just knew that the conversation in this