boomed. “It’s a pity your friend had to miss it.”

Henry and Rohan turned.

“Uncle?” Henry asked, hoping he’d misheard.

“Yes, my dear Uncle Havelock. Absolutely illuminating lesson, wouldn’t you agree? I mean, imagine if we still went to war … why, if we were captured, I’d sleep on a pillow mattress while my family paid for my release. But you lot, well, you’d be tortured in a dungeon.”

“My father is—,” Rohan began.

“Dead, and such a pity,” Valmont simpered as Rohan clenched his hands into fists.

“You deserve to be captured in battle,” Henry said. “And if you’re anything as horrible toward your family as you are toward my friends, they’d refuse to pay your ransom and leave you to rot.”

“Easy, Grim,” Valmont said. “I was only supposing. Temper, temper. I wonder if I should tell my uncle how much his class upsets you?”

“If you have a last wish,” Henry retorted.

“Oh, I do,” Valmont assured Henry. “But I wouldn’t want to keep you up at night with terror, so I’ll spare you the specifics.”

As Valmont left, Rohan shook his head.

“I don’t understand why he’s so horrible,” Rohan said.

“Neither do I,” Henry admitted. “But I wouldn’t waste my time thinking about it.”

Their schedules blocked the next hour as free before supper. Suddenly, the enormity of the day seemed like a pressing weight upon Henry’s shoulders. He felt exhausted.

“Coming back to the room?” Rohan asked.

“In a while,” Henry said.

Through a window outside Lord Havelock’s classroom, Henry could see sunlight streaming across the quadrangle, beckoning him outdoors.

The sunlight was as warm and inviting as it looked. Henry tilted his face upward as he traipsed through the grass, his mind a mess of that day’s classes, of Valmont’s taunts and Rohan’s shy friendliness and Adam’s inability to keep his mouth shut, even in front of the terrifying Lord Havelock.

At the other end of the quadrangle, beyond the rather pathetic hedge maze, was a stone bench dappled with sunshine. Henry sprawled gratefully onto the bench, closing his eyes.

After being continuously surrounded by other students for the past twenty-four hours, it was immensely satisfying to be alone, with no one staring at him curiously, no constant pressure to prove himself.

“Sir Henry Grim,” Henry murmured, reassuring himself. It was all worth it for that.

And then someone giggled.

Henry opened one eye.

The headmaster’s daughter leaned against the nearest tree, a book under her arm, laughing at him. Her white frock was covered with bits of twigs, and the bow in her hair had come untied.

“Oh, er, hello,” Henry said, surging to his feet. You were always to stand in the presence of a lady, he knew.

“So who’s Sir Henry Grim?” the girl asked.

Henry reddened.

“Um, no one. I mean, just me. Well, not yet, but—”

“I’m Frankie,” she said, calmly picking a bramble off her skirts. “Don’t call me Francesca. It’s a perfectly horrible name. I like yours, though, rather a lot. It doesn’t sound nearly as formidable as it should for a Knightley student.”

That, Henry thought miserably, is the problem. He sighed.

“What are you doing?” Frankie pressed.

“Thinking,” Henry said. “What are you reading?”

Frankie hid the book behind her dress. “Nothing.”

“Well, sorry for asking,” Henry said, nettled.

Frankie stared at Henry a moment, considering him. Finally, she said, “Promise not to tell?”

“I promise.”

“Do you swear?”

“I already gave you my word. Code of Chivalry and all that. Either tell me or don’t. I’ve only got an hour free and I don’t want to waste it.”

Frankie showed him the cover. It was an ordinary Latin textbook.

“So?” Henry said. “It’s just a textbook. I had the same one last year.”

“Are you dense?” Frankie snorted. “Do you think girls learn the same things as boys?”

“Well, of course not. You learn embroidery and painting and poetry. Those sorts of—” Henry stopped midsentence, realization dawning. “You stole that?”

Frankie shrugged. “I’m going to return it. Besides, no one will miss it. I just swiped it from an empty classroom.”

Henry couldn’t stop a broad smile from creeping across his face.

“What’s funny?” Frankie asked.

“I used to do the same thing,” Henry said, realizing that textbook stealing seemed to be a habit among Professor Stratford’s pupils of late. “And anyway, if you want to learn Latin, just ask Professor Stratford. He won’t mind.”

“How do you know my tutor’s name?” Frankie accused, taking a few curious steps toward Henry.

“He used to be my tutor,” Henry said. “After he caught me stealing textbooks. Although mine was Milton, not a Latin primer.”

Henry made a face at the thought.

“He’d really teach me? And other things too? Like history and …