straight face as he offered up his monogrammed handkerchief to muffle Adam’s enormous grin.

Military history with Lord Havelock was next, to everyone’s terror—except for Valmont's. When Henry, Adam, and Rohan entered Lord Havelock’s austere and windowless tower classroom, they were surprised to find Valmont and Theobold seated in the center of the front row, grinning hugely.

“They’re mad,” Adam murmured, claiming a seat in the second to last row. “Couldn’t pay me to cozy up to Havelock.”

Henry shrugged and took out his notebook, enormously glad that Professor Stratford had tutored him so thoroughly in military history. They were to receive their textbooks at the end of the lesson, but Henry was fairly certain that his strong background in the past hundred years of military history would impress even Lord Havelock.

Valmont reclined in his chair, pillowing his hands behind his head as he chattered with Theobold, but he snapped to attention when Lord Havelock swept into the room.

“We meet again, first years. I trust that you are not deficient of memory, that neither I nor my subject require reintroduction.”

With a Havelook of Doom, Lord Havelock yanked a map down from the ceiling and removed a pointer from a fold in his master’s gown.

He smacked the pointer across the map.

“Examinations,” he began, “will be given whenever the mood strikes, so you must always be prepared. For instance, I wonder how many of you are prepared … now.”

With a wicked grin, Lord Havelock struck the pointer against his palm.

Henry half expected it to draw blood, but Lord Havelock didn’t even wince as he asked, “What was the name of the revolutionary party which Yurick Mors headed to overthrow the Nordlandic monarchy?”

Henry nearly sighed with relief; he knew this.

“Rohan Mehta?”

“The Draconians, if I remember correctly, sir,” Rohan answered.

“If you remember correctly?” Lord Havelock simpered. “Is there something wrong with your mem-ory?”

“No, sir. The correct answer is the Draconians, sir,” Rohan said.

“Obviously,” Lord Havelock said, unimpressed. “And in what year did the Sassons divide the Isles into four distinct territories?”

Henry bit his lip. It was ancient history. Were they truly expected to know the exact year?

“Adam Beckerman?”

“Somewhere around fourteen-something, I’d expect,” Adam said cheerfully.

“You may leave the room, Mr. Beckerman,” Lord Havelock said. “The correct response when one does not know an answer is, ‘I don’t know, sir. I am unprepared.’ Cheek is never acceptable.”

“Yes, sir,” Adam said, going red.

“Pack your things,” Lord Havelock said. “I shall not ask you again.”

With every eye on him, Adam picked up his notebook and disappeared into the hallway.

“Now,” Lord Havelock said, pressing the tips of his fingers together so tightly that his knuckles went white, “who can tell me the name of the knight after whom our peace treaty is called?”

Henry almost laughed. A child’s question!

“Fergus Valmont?”

“Sir Arthur Longsword,” Valmont answered promptly.

“Excellent. Someone here knows his history.” Lord Havelock smiled.

Is he mad? Henry scrawled in his notebook, tilting it toward Rohan.That question was so simple!

Rohan shrugged.

“Now, who can tell me what was the fate of a nobleman captured in battle, and how did it differ from the fate of a commoner?” Lord Havelock asked, and without even pausing to consider, said, “Henry Grim.”

Henry gulped. This wasn’t a date or a name; it was a proper essay. And even if he had known the answer, how could he have given it without saying either too much or too little for Lord Havelock’s satisfaction?

No, Henry thought wryly, this wasn’t an interrogation, it was an execution. Lord Havelock intended to break him, to kill his confidence. Humility was his only chance.

“I don’t know, sir,” Henry said, as Lord Havelock had instructed. “I am unprepared, sir.”

“Pity,” Lord Havelock said. “And I had harbored such high hopes for you, Mr. Grim.”

Henry was certain Lord Havelock had done no such thing. The question was impossible.

“A nobleman captured in battle,” Lord Havelock intoned as the boys all scribbled in their notebooks, “had the right to be ransomed, and as such, was treated in a manner befitting his station. A commoner, however, had no such right. Commoners who were not killed outright were thrown into dungeons called oubliettes, where they faced starvation and, often, torture.”

Five pages of detailed notes later, Lord Havelock dismissed the class.

“How are we going to manage to read three chapters by tomorrow?” Rohan complained, flipping through a copy of their new textbook.

“We’ll do it together,” Henry said. “A study group. You, me, and Adam.”

“I suppose,” Rohan said doubtfully, “although Adam still has to copy the notes he missed.”

“Isn’t Uncle a brilliant lecturer?” Valmont