spotted yours, I think: that water stain in the corner, there?”

Adam snorted.

“When I call your name,” Lord Havelock barked, startling the boys into attention, “step forward and take the pen. Read the code and sign your name upon the scroll if you intend to become a knight.”

Lord Havelock stood next to the High Table, having just removed an old-fashioned quill and inkpot from a fold in his master’s gown.

“Theobold Archer IV,” Lord Havelock called, and Theobold strode pompously forward, received the quill and ink with a slight bow, and stepped to the table, where he skimmed and promptly signed the Code of Chivalry.

“Adam Beckerman,” Lord Havelock called, and a fair amount of boys nudged one another and whispered as Adam stepped forward with his chin held high and his small circular hat (he’d told Henry on the train that this was called a yarmulke) clearly visible.

After Adam, a number of other boys were called forward without event. Lord Havelock deliberately wasn’t using courtesy titles, no doubt to move the process along faster, and Henry was grateful. He didn’t think he could take it if he had to listen to every boy’s proper station, a constant reminder of his own lowly status and how undeserving he was to be here alongside these young aristocrats.

Henry’s mouth went dry when Lord Havelock called his name, but no one took any special notice of him. Heart pounding, Henry took the quill and ink, smiling his thanks. Yet when he looked up, Lord Havelock’s face was contorted into an expression of sheer loathing.

Trying to convince himself that he had imagined the look on Lord Havelock’s face, or at least that it hadn’t been directed toward himself, Henry approached the High Table. Unrolled on the table was a thick sheet of parchment paper bearing the inscription:

Hear Ye, All Who Would Become Men of Honor, Sons of Chivalry:

The path you boys intend to take,

Is rewarding, yes, but with much at stake:

For if your honor durst to stray,

In any moment of any day,

Then of this warning, please take heed,

Or else suffer consequences unpleasant indeed.

A knight is a peer to honor bound

Whose fears dare not to make a sound.

With words suffused in honesty

And deeds steeped long with chivalry,

A knight defends those in need

Whether of common or noble breed.

And on this day an oath I swear

This Code of Chivalry henceforth I bear.

Taking a deep breath, Henry touched his quill to the parchment and signed his name.

Henry couldn’t help but grin as he rejoined the crowd of boys. Suddenly, Lord Havelock’s imposing manner did not seem nearly as frightening, nor the recent tabloid headlines anything more than preposterous. After all, look where he, Henry, had wound up. At Knightley Academy, in the finest set of clothing he had ever owned, a proper student bound to a code of chivalry and on his way to becoming a knight.

Henry glanced toward Adam, who stood, hands in his pockets, watching the next boy approach the parchment.

When Lord Havelock called “Rohan Mehta” and a proud boy with brown skin and dark flashing eyes stepped forward to regally receive the quill and ink, Adam grinned.

“Like I said, Indian bloke.”

Henry nodded, curious as to Rohan’s story. In fact, he was so lost in supposing that he almost missed Lord Havelock call the final student’s name.

“Fergus Valmont,” Lord Havelock said with an indulgent smile.

Henry couldn’t believe it. But sure enough, he would recognize that swagger anywhere. Valmont, Henry’s tormentor from the Midsummer School who had failed the exam despite boasting of his family’s connections, snatched the quill from Lord Havelock. And with a nasty sneer in Henry’s direction, Valmont signed his name to the parchment without even bothering to read the message.

SERVANTS AND SCHOLARS

The ink had scarcely dried on the Code of Chivalry before Lord Havelock hurried the boys off to their new lodgings. The First Year Corridor, with its adjoining common room, was just a short ways from the Great Hall. Henry and the other first years squeezed through the narrow hallway, which was made even slimmer by the antique suits of armor that stood at attention between every flickering sconce.

“Your lodgings have already been assigned,” Lord Havelock barked, and although he had not turned around, his voice echoed off the polished armor and filled the hallway. “There will be no room changes, not even trading among yourselves. As first years, your doors do not lock. Curfew is ten o’clock, lights at a quarter past.”

Lord Havelock came to a halt with no warning, then turned on his