Sir Frederick had given him, Henry was to arrive at Hammersmith Cross Station on the fifteenth of August to take the ten o’clock train to Knightley Academy, and to arrive in formal school uniform (which could be purchased, along with a regulation blazer and scarf, from a specialty shop on Bond Street), unless he desired to arrange private transportation to the school, in which case he should telegram in advance.
And so, there he was, at a quarter to ten, receiving the strangest looks from the other people in the station who scurried past, some of their faces downright fearful—no doubt they had all read that week’s Tattleteller.
But because of his new uniform, the crowds parted for Henry—almost respectfully, he thought—and a little boy holding his mother’s hand had paused for a moment to stare. Oddest of all, when Henry stopped to ask a police knight where he might find platform three, he was met with a salute.
“Oh, er,” Henry said, raising his left hand to his eyebrow in an awkward approximation.
The police knight chuckled. “Yellow tie, of course! You’ll be a first year, then, am I right?”
“Yes, sir,” Henry said.
“Well, good luck. You’ll want the platform just past that newsstand there.” The police knight pointed. “Perhaps best to buy something to eat on the train. Nerves always made me hungry when I was your age.”
“Thank you, sir. I think I will.”
“And next time I see you, you’d better have learned a proper salute,” the police knight called after him.
With the dregs of his money, Henry bought a few apples from the newsstand and couldn’t help glancing at the Tattleteller’s headline. Only yesterday, the gossip rag had taunted the city with another unconfirmed rumor: chancellor mors declares education “for males only!” Of course it couldn’t be true. Girls had to be allowed in schools. How else would they learn the skills they needed to attract prospects for marriage, or how to manage households once they had married? Henry didn’t believe it, and he stared sourly at the front-page headline as he took his change from the vendor. As Henry searched for a place to stow his apples (eventually using his hat as a basket), he noticed that a lot of the shabbier passengers in the station, the ones who looked so jittery and fearful, carried copies of the tabloid tucked under their arms.
For pity’s sake! Henry thought, clutching his hatful of apples. Some people will believe anything. Finally, at five minutes until ten, Henry took a deep breath, tightened his grip on his suitcase, and walked through the archway that led to platform three.
“All aboard,” the conductor yelled, clanging a handbell. “Ten o’clock express to Knightley Academy, Avel-on-t’Hems.”
The platform bustled with students and their families, all saying stiff, last-minute good-byes. Henry hurried past the happy families and bland butlers (none of whom carried that silly magazine, he noticed), pretending he didn’t care that he was on his own, as always. Finally, Henry found an open door and presented himself to the conductor.
“Yellows’re in the last two cars,” the conductor grumbled, jerking his thumb in the proper direction.
Henry nodded and ducked into the last car, hoping for an empty compartment. He stuck his head into one just as the whistle blew and the train lurched out of the station.
“Hello,” Henry said, as there were two boys already seated inside.
“Hallo there,” the tall blond boy said, grinning amiably. “I daresay we’re a bit full already, but nonetheless, a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
The blond boy stuck out his hand, which glinted with the delicate gold of a signet ring.
“I’m Henry Grim,” Henry said, giving the boy’s hand a firm shake.
“Theobold Archer IV.” Theobold pompously returned Henry’s handshake. “You’ve got an interesting surname there. Any relation to the Brothers Grimm?”
“I’m not really sure,” Henry said truthfully, surveying the overhead rack only to find it already crammed with both boys’ bags. Stowing his suitcase at his feet, Henry sat down next to the other boy.
“Edmund Merrill,” the boy mumbled without looking up from the magazine he was reading.
“His brother’s in third year with mine,” Theobold said, as though storklike Edmund needed explaining. “So, Grim, you must tell me, I’m terribly interested to know, what school are you coming from?”
“Er, Midsummer,” Henry said. “But—”
“Midsummer? But that’s brilliant! You lot never make it into the academy. Or, at least, that’s what I’ve heard.” Theobold leaned in and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “So, Grim, what do you make of the school letting in commoners this