their faces straight.

“Is something funny?” Professor Turveydrop asked severely.

No, Henry thought. The truth is often uncomfortable, but rarely funny.

“I didn’t realize I was doing it, sir,” Henry said.

“Yes, well, try to practice. You are a knight in training, not a common houseboy. Mr. Valmont, why are you smirking like that?”

“No reason, sir,” Valmont said.

“And now, Sir So-and-so,” Professor Turveydrop prompted.

The boys frowned.

“When faced with another man who has taken the Oath of Chivalry,” Professor Turveydrop explained, “you salute. Watch me.”

Henry floated through the rest of the lesson in an embarrassed sort of trance.

The professor’s word echoed through his head: Why are you bowing like a servant bringing in the tea? followed by the raucous laughter of his classmates.

Henry and the other first years spent that evening in the library, writing an essay for Lord Havelock. Every so often, Theobold would catch Henry’s eye and bow elaborately, pantomiming holding out a serving tray.

With a sigh, Henry began building a little fortress of books around his place at the table, walling himself into his misery.

The library, like everything at Knightley Academy, was far grander than its counterpart at the Midsummer School. The books stretched upward for two stories, requiring both ladders and a wrap-around balcony for access. The ceiling, painted in fresco, was a dome depicting the celestial sphere and the myths of the constellations. Between every three seats at the long tables sat a green reading lamp, and the chairs, although worn from centuries of use, were comfortable.

The silence of the library was punctuated only by the occasional sigh or flipping of a page. The first years bent over their papers, scratching out their essays in careful, neat script.

Suddenly a group of second years, their green-striped ties loosened around their necks, pushed open the library door, joking and talking loudly.

“You’re not serious, Jas,” a big, bespectacled boy said, clapping a hand on his friend’s shoulder.

“Certainly I’m serious,” the boy called Jas boomed. “That’s what they call it.”

“In your dreams,” a shorter, stouter boy said, laughing.

“Not in mine!” Jas winked.

The older boys were seemingly unaware that they’d interrupted the first years, or that there was anyone else in the library at all. They passed by the end of the table where Henry, Adam, and Rohan sat, and the boy called Jas, explaining something with big, sweeping gestures, knocked part of Henry’s book fortress to the floor.

Suddenly the silence seemed to widen. All of the first years stared.

With a sigh, Henry got to his knees and began picking up books.

“Frightfully sorry, there,” the older boy said, stooping down and gathering up two of the books he’d upset. “I got a bit carried away.”

“Not a problem,” Henry said, surprised and pleased that he wasn’t being treated like an outcast first year.

“Anyway, I’m Jasper Hallworth,” the older boy said.

“Henry Grim,” Henry said, and then, before he could help himself, “you’re the one with the pipe.”

“Well,” Jasper said, straightening. “I’m not going to ask how you know about that, except to hope that my celebrity has reached even you titchy first years.”

“I’m not titchy,” Henry protested, drawing himself up to his full height. The top of his head reached Jasper’s chin.

“You are; you’re an armrest.”

“And you’re a chimney,” Henry said, “or at least you smoke like one.”

At this, Jasper threw his head back and laughed so loudly that the librarian came over and shushed him.

“You’re all right, Henry Grim,” Jasper said, ruffling Henry’s hair and then taking the spiral stair up to the second level of books.

The other first years went back to their work, as though the conversation between Henry and Jasper had never happened.

But it had, and Henry returned to his essay with a small, secret smile and just a little bit less dread.

***

“Is this going to happen every night?” Rohan asked with a sigh as Frankie tumbled through the window a few hours later.

“I just came to see how Adam’s arm is doing.” Frankie pouted.

“Really, my fair damsel?” Adam asked, grinning over the top of his protocol notes.

“No,” Frankie said, snorting.

“So guess what?” Henry said. He was rereading his essay for Lord Havelock, lying stomach-down on his bed. “Another student spoke to me tonight.”

“You should have seen it,” Adam enthused. “This bloody huge second year toppled Henry’s books and then helped pick them up.”

Frankie shook her head. “You can’t be serious. Come on, Rohan, was it truly that exciting?”

Rohan pressed his lips together and said nothing.

“Rohannnnn,” Frankie whined. “Are you angry with me?”

“I am ignoring you,” Rohan said, “in hopes that you will