Headmaster Hathaway said, stepping forward to greet the examiners.

“Welcome, Sir Examiners,” the boys chorused, touching their right hands to the brims of their top hats.

Valmont’s hand trembled as he lifted it to the brim of his hat. These examiners weren’t the ones he had been told to expect. But that was no reason to panic … right?

“Thank you,” the shorter of the two men said, crisply shaking the headmaster’s hand as his companion stood silently by his side. “We’re glad to be here at the Midsummer School.”

Examiner the Shorter’s silent companion snapped to life and, reaching into his leather briefcase, pulled out a sheet of paper and began to read in a sonorous baritone.

“Grand Chevalier Winter extends his warm greetings to you, the Midsummer School for Boys. Sir Frederick, his appointed chief examiner, has come to evaluate any and all desiring residents of this school for admission to Knightley Academy this approaching August. The examinations, to be held on fifth May at promptly eight o’clock in the morning in the Great Hall, will test both physical and intellectual accomplishments and aptitude. If granted admission to Knightley, a student will spend the next four years studying military history, medicine, languages, ethics, protocol, diplomacy, and fencing. Upon graduation, a student will become a Knight of the Realm and be assured a prestigious career as a police knight, knight detective, or secret service knight.”

Examiner of the Baritone promptly folded this paper and placed it back inside his briefcase, which he closed with a snap. As he surveyed the faces of the boys and their teachers, he was puzzled to find a broad smile on the young, mustachioed professor’s face.

Henry took his usual seat at the long mahogany table near the reference books in the library and waited for Professor Stratford to arrive. He’d finished his essay an hour earlier, after helping Cook wash a mountain of dishes. Henry’s fingers had been so wrinkled from the hot water that he could barely grip his pen. Now he frowned at his essay, wondering if his usually elegant penmanship looked too sloppy.

The day had been thick with excitement—for everyone else. There was a new grand chevalier (a sort of headmaster) at Knightley for the approaching year—and a new chief examiner—and no one knew if this meant that the exam would be different from previous years.

Henry privately thought not.

After all, there had been only one change at Knightley Academy since its founding nearly five centuries ago, and tradition was tradition. Anyone familiar with the Midsummer School could tell you that.

Three short knocks sounded on the great cedar door to the library, marking Henry and the professor’s secret code, and Henry unlatched the lock and heaved the door open.

Professor Stratford, in his chalk-stained trousers and rumpled shirtsleeves, slipped through, juggling an armload of books.

“I’ll be finished tidying up in a moment,” Henry said loudly, in case someone might be passing through the nearby corridors. “Are you returning some overdue library books, sir?”

Henry followed the professor to the antique table where he’d left his essay.

“Tout les livres sont les livres de la biliotheque,” Professor Stratford said, raising an eyebrow as he waited for a response.

“ Er, mais c’est tort, maitre, lorsque la conaissance dans les livres ne s’appartient a une place, mais s’appartient a la monde,” Henry replied nervously.

“Bien.”

Professor Stratford switched to Latin next, then Italian, before finally returning to English.

“Excuse me for asking, sir, but why are we reviewing languages?”

Professor Stratford sighed and slumped in his chair, looking every minute less like a teacher and more like one of the year-eight boys.

“I’ve been tutoring you every night for almost nine months, Henry.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Ever since I caught you returning that copy of Milton to my desk last September.”

Henry cringed. “I’m still sorry about that—”

“Never mind the past, Henry. I’m not sorry about it. No, it’s rather the contrary.”

Professor Stratford pressed his fingers to his temples for a moment, and then began again. “You’re by far the cleverest boy at Midsummer. I want you to know that.”

“Thank you, sir,” Henry said, flushing from the unexpected compliment.

“But all of this sneaking, all of these late nights spent reviewing material far beyond my own boys’ curriculum, it has to add up to something.”

“I’m not sure I’m following you, sir,” said Henry.

“One must benefit from one’s risks, Henry. And you never know when we’ll be found out. That’s why I want you to sit the Knightley Exam tomorrow.”

“Sit the exam?” Henry nearly shouted. “Are you mad?”

“Hardly. I listened carefully to that proclamation the