stifling room was far from finished.

“Now, Headmaster, was that really necessary?” Sir Frederick asked.

“It has nothing at all to do with you, Sir Examiner.”

“Ah, but it does. I feel responsible. You are saying that the professor’s teaching is at fault here, but did you ever consider that the fault might lie”—he paused—“in the exam?”

“The exam?” Headmaster Hathaway echoed.

“Yes, the exam. Perhaps the professor taught the boys extraordinarily well. But none of your students has passed the exam in five years, and surely Professor—Stratford, was it?—can’t have been teaching here for more than a few years.”

“Two years,” the headmaster grumbled.

“So perhaps the exam is to blame, and that is why it’s been so long since a Midsummer boy has passed.”

Henry bit back a smile. He was certain the examiner wasn’t saying what he really meant—that the exam was designed so that horrible boys like the ones at Midsummer would not pass, that none of them was chivalrous enough to gain acceptance to Knightley.

“Perhaps so,” the headmaster begrudgingly agreed.

“Now, you’ve been headmaster here a long time, if my memory serves.” Sir Frederick paused for just a tiny moment. “I’m sure a man as secure in his position as yourself would find no harm come to him if he showed a young colleague some compassion and offered him back his job.”

“Professor Stratford has already resigned,” the headmaster said. “It’s in the past.”

“The recent past,” the examiner said.

“The past,” Headmaster Hathaway corrected firmly.

“I see,” the examiner replied, his tone implying that he didn’t see at all. “Well, there is another matter on the table. Henry here.”

“He. Is. Not. Going,” the headmaster said.

“I’m afraid that isn’t up to you, Headmaster. It’s up to Henry. Henry, do you plan to reject my offer?”

Henry looked up, hardly daring to believe it. “No, sir, I don’t.”

“Clear as rain,” Sir Frederick said. “Now, Headmaster, it appears the boy will indeed be attending Knightley. And so, if he’s going to continue working here until the fall term, I wonder if you might afford him a few hours each evening to properly continue his studies? We wouldn’t want him to fall behind.”

“But he isn’t a student!”

“You can bill Knightley Academy for his tutor. He will be needing a new one, now that our dear Professor Stratford has resigned.”

“Bill … Knightley … tutor … I …” the headmaster stuttered.

“Yes?” the examiner urged.

“You’re fired!” the headmaster shouted at Henry. “Fired! Get Out!”

“Now, that really isn’t necessary,” Sir Frederick soothed. “In fact, I think everything has gotten a bit out of hand.”

“Six years!” the headmaster moaned. “For six years now my boys have failed your ruddy exam, and a servant boy passes.”

“An ex-servant,” Henry said coldly. “Seeing as I’ve just lost my job.”

Sir Frederick stood. “And, Headmaster, you might want to return to the dining hall. I believe the boys are waiting for you to end the morning announcements.”

“What am I going to tell them?” the headmaster said with an odd little laugh, as though thinking aloud.

“What you wish,” Sir Frederick said. “Come along, Henry. I believe we’re finished here.”

AN EXPLANATION, OF SORTS

Upon the occasion of being called into the head-master’s office, and especially upon the occasion of being fired from one’s job, there is rarely a reason to rejoice. And yet, as Henry followed Sir Frederick down the narrow hallway with its flickering gas lamps and portraits of past headmasters, Henry certainly felt like rejoicing.

He was going to Knightley!

But … he was also fired, and worse, Professor Stratford was in trouble and it was all Henry’s fault. Henry might never see his tutor again, never have the chance to thank him or to apologize.

“Sir? Where are we going?” Henry finally asked.

“To my room, so we can speak in private. I believe I owe you an explanation.”

An explanation? As they walked, Henry’s mind began to churn out possibilities of what Sir Frederick wanted to explain. Maybe—maybe Henry wouldn’t be able to attend Knightley after all. That had to be it. Glumly, Henry followed Sir Frederick up the grand staircase and down the lavishly wallpapered East Corridor on the second floor. The East Wing rooms housed visiting scholars.

Sir Frederick’s room was one that Henry had never before entered. It was a grand bedroom with an elegant four-poster bed, colorful tapestry rugs, large windows overlooking the front drive, and a marble mantelpiece.

Sir Frederick motioned toward two plush chairs on either side of the fireplace and Henry felt his cheeks redden.

“Is something the matter?” Sir Frederick asked, settling into one of the chairs.

“It’s just …” Henry didn’t