and it had been a bit of a nasty shock when they hadn’t done. Henry was almost sympathetic toward his regal new roommate.

“Blimey!” Adam exclaimed. He’d wandered over to have a look at Rohan’s books and was pointing at the gold-leaf library crest on the front cover. “Your father’s the duke of Holchester?”

Rohan ducked his head but didn’t deny it.

Well, Henry thought, at least I let him choose beds first.

When the bells rang, signaling a half hour until supper, Henry’s stomach lurched—not out of hunger but habit. At the Midsummer School for Boys, this was when he’d dash down to help Cook in the kitchens, staggering under the hot, heavy serving platters, eating only when everyone else had finished and long after the food had gone cold.

Now, for the first time, the half-hour bells meant something different: comb your hair, straighten your tie, and for God’s sake, don’t embarrass yourself. Because Henry’s place was no longer in the kitchen, it was at the table.

There were four long tables in the Great Hall, one for each year of students, and a High Table for the professors and headmaster.

The first years, terrified by Lord Havelock’s warning that tardiness would not be tolerated, had arrived early. Gradually, the older students trickled in, laughing and horsing around, yelling across the room to say hello to friends they hadn’t seen over the summer.

The scene was so similar to the one Henry had watched during his first week working at the Midsummer School that it gave him chills. A little voice in the back of his head that he didn’t know how to switch off kept shrilling, Everyone knows you don’t belong! Everyone knows! He tried his best to ignore it.

Henry, Adam, and Rohan sat in the middle of the long table, suddenly glad that they had one another to talk to. Many of the boys who had been assigned single rooms sat silently, afraid to start or even join a conversation.

Nervously, Henry and his roommates examined the professors who took their seats at the High Table. That one looked kind, that one looked ancient, there was Sir Frederick, and there! Henry couldn’t stop his face from breaking into a wide grin. There was Professor Stratford in his rumpled tweed, seated next to his pupil.

Henry hadn’t been around a lot of girls. The ones at the orphanage had gotten by because they acted like the boys, with rough clothes and even rougher manners, and the few scullery maids at Midsummer had been timid little things, always getting fired for stealing something they hadn’t actually stolen.

This girl, in her sweet lace dress with its modest collar, looked to be around Henry’s age. She reminded Henry of a doll, with her blond curls and wide eyes and fair, pale skin.

“Who’s the girl?” Rohan asked.

“The new headmaster’s daughter,” Henry said, pleased he knew something—anything—the others didn’t.

And just then a hidden door beside the vast fireplace swung open and Headmaster Winter stepped into the Great Hall, out of breath and still fastening his cravat.

Everyone quieted.

The headmaster finished with his cravat and turned his attention toward his left cuff link as he made his way to the center seat at the High Table.

Everyone waited.

The headmaster nervously cleared his throat, slumped his hands into his trouser pockets, and gave an apologetic grin. Even in the soft candlelight at the High Table, Headmaster Winter looked every one of his forty years, his ginger beard gone patchy with gray, his skin pale and drawn as though he were recovering from a recent illness.

“Wel-welcome to the new term,” he said, gaining confidence now that the worst of it—the beginning—had already passed. “I shan’t trouble you with long-winded introductions. It’s been a tiring day for us all, and there is a warm supper waiting to be served. But we do need to go over some preliminaries, to refresh ourselves on the rules and all that rot.”

Some of the older boys laughed, and Headmaster Winter grinned sheepishly.

“You may laugh, but rules do molder with time and need to be tossed out or reformed on occasion. This is not one of those times. There shall be no bullying on my watch, and I hold no tolerance for boys found tormenting any of the first years. Class attendance is not optional, and sleep is to be done in your rooms, not at your desks or in the chapel pews.”

Again, some laughter.

“I’m sure your heads of year have already covered the rest. Do I hear some grumbles of disagreement, or