stepped into the Great Hall.

The boys, thinking it might be one of the examiners, looked up.

But it was only that odd serving boy, the one with the too-long hair and falling-apart work boots, probably on his day off.

“You’re not supposed to be in here,” Valmont said sneeringly to Henry. “They’re giving an exam.”

It was then or never. Chalkboards or swords. What could be or what if.

“Yes, and I intend to take it,” Henry said coolly.

“You?” Valmont’s lip curled. “Do you even know how to read? And aren’t you supposed to be fixing that clogged toilet up on the third floor?”

The venom in Valmont’s voice stung, and Henry took an involuntary step back.

A couple of boys laughed. And then the perfect retort popped into Henry’s head.

“Why so defensive?” Henry asked. “Are you afraid of some competition?”

“Competition?” Valmont laughed uproariously. “You?”

“Yes.” Henry took a step forward, his brown eyes boring into Valmont’s blue ones. “Me.”

Valmont glared.

Henry smiled.

“Even if you pass the exam, they won’t have you,” Valmont said, and for a moment, Henry’s smile wavered. “So go on, keep wasting everyone’s time. I hope they fire you for this. In fact, I think I’ll see to that personally, once I get into Knightley, which I will, because I’m a Valmont.”

A couple of boys yelled their approval, and Henry forced himself to keep calm. Fighting wouldn’t solve anything—except making sure that he did get fired. But Valmont’s words were poison darts landing a little too close to the target for comfort. What if he was wasting everyone’s time? What if Professor Stratford had believed in him, and risked his place as English master, for nothing?

Trying to quiet these thoughts that thundered through his head, Henry reached into his dirt-smudged satchel, pulled out a book, and leaned against the wall, losing himself in the text.

All too soon the carved wooden doorway at the far end of the hall swung open, and Examiner the Shorter strode forward, hands thrust into the pin-striped pockets of his dark suit.

“Morning, boys.”

“Good morning, Sir Examiner,” the students called in unison, straightening up as though they were already students at Knightley.

Henry closed his book and held it at his side, trying not to fret over how grubby he looked compared to the carefully turned-out students.

“Are all residents of the Midsummer School for Boys who wish to sit this exam present?” the examiner asked.

“Yes, Sir Examiner,” everyone chorused, Henry included.

“Excuse me? Sir Examiner?” Valmont asked, tentatively raising his hand.

“Yes?”

“This boy here”—Valmont pointed at Henry—“is a school servant. He shouldn’t be allowed.”

“I see,” the examiner said coolly, jingling the coins in his pockets. “You, in the shirtsleeves, what’s your name?”

Henry gulped. “Henry Grim, sir.”

“And how old are you, Mr. Grim?”

“Fourteen, sir.”

“And where might you live?”

“The servants’ quarters in the attic rooms, sir.”

“Then it would appear that, this year, you are indeed eligible to sit the exam. And whether or not you should be allowed to do so is not up to the discretion of mere schoolboys.”

Valmont frowned, and Henry tried not to smile.

“And now, if there are to be no more disruptions,” the examiner said, “you will follow me into the anteroom, where you will take the written portion of the exam. You are allowed three hours. To complete the exam in full would take five hours. And so, you must choose which questions you will answer, and think hard about what your choices will reveal when the exam is scored. Follow me, please.”

Henry swallowed nervously and followed the whispering boys through the doorway and into the small anteroom, where four rows of desks had been set up. On each desk sat a thick booklet and a pencil stub without an eraser. Examiner of the Baritone sat at a master’s table facing the rows of desks.

Henry chose a seat in the back. There were sixteen desks, and the other boys avoided him, leaving Henry surrounded by empty seats. This was fine with him. At least no one could accuse him of cheating.

“Before you begin, are there any final questions?” asked Examiner the Shorter.

“I have one,” Harisford said, without bothering to raise his hand. “Sir. Where are the erasers?”

“You will not be permitted to use erasers,” the examiner replied with just the faintest hint of a smile. “In life, your actions and words are permanent. You may remove the ink, but they are indelible.”

“So it’s part of the test?” Harisford asked.

“Yes, it’s part of the test. Any last questions? No? Very well, time remaining will be given every fifteen minutes. You may begin.”

Henry