eyes and shrugged, but a telltale corner of his lip twitched as he held back a smile. “Isn’t it quite the tragedy? I knew you’d be disappointed.”

Henry couldn’t help grinning. Professor Stratford was going to be there, at Knightley. Henry wouldn’t be alone after all. Everything would turn out all right.

And as if the professor could read Henry’s mind, he said, “It’s a curious thing, change. You never get used to it, and you’re never sure where it comes from, but you better learn to expect it.”

“I don’t recognize the quotation.” Henry frowned, trying to place it.

“That’s because it isn’t one. It is simply advice, and advice you’d be well advised to take, especially now.”

“So that means you’ve heard? About Knightley admitting two more common students?” Henry asked.

“Oh, that.” The professor was suddenly fascinated by his dented old pocket watch. “I seem to recall reading something about that in today’s paper. Terribly boring article, wouldn’t you say? Absolutely nothing at all to do with the two of us.”

“I could barely force myself to skim it,” Henry said, playing along.

“Bet you’re glad they didn’t mention your name, though,” the professor said, suddenly serious.

Henry sighed, flopping back in his chair. “Because then it would have been more embarrassing, you mean? Why did they single me out like that?”

“Rags-to-riches stories, my boy. That’s what everyone wants to read. It gives them hope.”

“If you ask me, it’s no better than those silly gossip magazines, planting seeds of ideas in people’s heads that sprout into awful rumors.”

“Better to know where the rumors start than believe those who tell them to you,” the professor said with a wink, holding up his magazine. “But as to your newfound fame”—the professor smiled as Henry pulled a face—“at least now everything’s out in the open. The other students at Knightley know your background. There’s nothing to hide. And you’ll have two other boys in a similar situation. Not a bad bargain.”

“Everything’s a bad bargain if you never meant to gamble in the first place,” Henry mock grumbled, and then he rolled his eyes. “Oh, Lord. Now you have me doing it too.”

But the professor was right. Henry wouldn’t have to pretend or explain himself to the other students at Knightley. Everything did seem to be working out for the best, which was a new sensation for Henry.

But for reasons he couldn’t explain, the back of his neck still prickled when he thought of the whispers he sometimes overheard during his walks through the City. Perhaps, even though he did not recognize it, he knew, deep down, that a man as learned as Professor Stratford could not be reading those inane gossip magazines purely for amusement, and that it was no error how his lessons now centered on history, particularly that of the last hundred years. No, everyone was hungry for news, and not of the rags-to-riches variety. But in that moment, news of Knightley’s new policy was all they had, and it would have to suffice.

THE CODE OF CHIVALRY

It is a truth universally acknowledged that the problem with new shoes is that they are never as comfortable as the ones they are meant to replace. But Henry hadn’t known this. After all, he’d never had a pair of new shoes before.

Trying not to wince as the backs of his new boots chafed against his open blisters, Henry hobbled through Hammersmith Cross Station. His new suitcase banged against the leg of his new trousers, and his new haircut felt too short, leaving the back of his neck exposed.

Professor Stratford had left three days earlier to get settled in with his latest pupil, and so Henry had locked up their flat, returned the key, and found his own way to the station on a crowded omnibus.

“Look at you!” old Mrs. Alabaster had clucked over Henry not fifteen minutes earlier. She’d exclaimed over his pressed gray trousers with the first-year yellow piping down the sides, his crisp white shirt, his yellow-and-white-striped tie, and his navy blue formal jacket, done in a military cut, with brass buttons, a white braid at the left shoulder, and the school crest sewn over the right breast pocket, bearing the silhouette of an old-fashioned knight with a lance, seated upon a prancing horse. Henry carried the boxy, stiff-brimmed ceremonial school cap under one arm, as it was possibly the most unflattering piece of clothing he’d ever owned—and that was saying something.

When Henry looked in the mirror that morning, he’d hardly recognized himself. As per the admittance letter