as you put it, is an experiment we won’t be repeating in my lifetime. If they fail, Lord Winter, you’d better not become too comfortable with your new job.”

After Henry and Professor Stratford had been in the city for two weeks, there was a most curious edition of the evening post.

As Henry walked back toward the bookshop after delivering a parcel of encyclopedias, he ran into a newsboy selling penny posts with the cry of “Extra! Extra! Knightley Academy now admitting commoners!”

Henry bought a paper and unfolded it where he stood, scanning the article in disbelief.

The newsboy hadn’t lied. In the wake of admitting their first common student, “a member of the serving staff at a local boys’ school who had been allowed to sit the exam along with the school’s pupils,” Knightley Academy was administering their exam to any fourteen-year-old boys who wished to take it, regardless of social standing. In three days, all desiring applicants would report to the Royal Museum for the examination, and the two boys with the highest scores would be admitted.

According to Lord Anthony Winter, the newly

appointed grand chevalier of Knightley Academy,

“Perhaps this adaptation of centuries-old tradition

is precisely the ‘common’ denominator

that Knightley needs in these changing times.

Here’s to new tradition, and to progress!”

Henry tucked the newspaper under his arm and turned down one of the shortcut alleyways that led from the high street to his flat, his cheeks burning in embarrassment. People all over the country would be reading about him in their newspapers, and true, they wouldn’t know his name, but there he was, immortalized in print—a member of the serving staff.

None of the other boys who had passed the Knightley Exam that year was mentioned in the article. No, it had just been him. Already singled out. Already different.

Henry sighed, walking the familiar cobblestones that led back to the bookshop. At least he wouldn’t be the only commoner at Knightley—that was good news. There would be two others with whom he could share the experience, with whom he could become friends if the other boys were as haughty as he feared. It was a relief, and yet, it also held the capacity to go terribly, horribly wrong.

Perhaps the two boys would become fast friends when they took the exam together, and then Henry would spend the next four years as a permanent outsider, unable to gain the most crucial acceptance of all—that of potential friends. Henry hadn’t wanted to be the only boy with his background at Knightley, but then again, he hadn’t expected not to be either. Now he didn’t know what to expect.

When Henry arrived back at the flat, he found Professor Stratford curled in his favorite chair, peering at an article in a gossip magazine. A copy of the evening post lay open on the nearby credenza, rumpled and probably read cover to cover, per usual.

“Back already?” Professor Stratford murmured, frowning at the magazine. He glanced up at Henry, then grinned.

“No, actually, I’m not here at all. You’re merely imagining my presence,” Henry joked.

“Am I? Pity. My imagination could be put to such better use.”

“Oh, very funny.” Henry rolled his eyes.

The professor mock scowled, and then grinned. “It’s a good thing you’re home early. I’ve just received some exciting news.”

Henry sank into the plush armchair across from Professor Stratford, wondering if this was going to be another of the professor’s inane jokes.

“Well?” Henry urged.

“I’ve accepted a new job. A more permanent one.”

Henry’s face fell. This was no joke at all—in fact, it was horribly serious. Henry knew what this meant; Professor Stratford was leaving. Soon. They’d say good-bye and promise to write, and before Henry knew it, he would be alone in the City, living by himself in this drafty old flat for the rest of the summer, with no one to quell his nerves or assure him that everything would turn out all right at Knightley.

“Congratulations.” Henry’s mouth was so dry that he nearly choked on the word.

“Thanks, awfully,” the professor said, ignoring Henry’s dejection. “Sir Frederick just sent a telegram. You remember him—the Knightley examiner? Apparently Lord Winter’s daughter will be staying at home and will require a tutor this year, and Sir Frederick put in a few good words on my behalf.”

Henry shook his head slightly, trying to clear it. Surely he’d misunderstood …

“Wait, so that means you’ll be—”

“—putting my diplomas to good use teaching a fifteen-year-old girl how to conjugate French verbs and recite poetry?”

“—coming with me to Knightley?”

“Oh, that? Unfortunately.” The professor rolled his