go away and Lord Havelock won’t expel us.”

“So this is you ignoring me, then?” Frankie queried.

“Yes, it is,” Rohan said, primly picking up a novel from his desk and hiding his amused expression behind it.

“Well, I just came by to see if someone could help with my French.”

“Let’s see it,” Henry said, scooting over on his bed to make room for Frankie.

“You’re joking!” Adam cried. “You never help me with French and I always ask.”

“I never help you precisely because you want me to do it for you,” Henry said. “And besides, Professor Lingua would know. You’re terrible at French.”

“He wouldn’t know I was terrible if you’d done my homework for me from the beginning,” Adam protested.

“Believe me, he would,” Rohan said, turning a page in his book. “And by the way, Henry, if you’re planning for Frankie to stay, she should use Adam’s desk, rather than sit on your bed.”

“But I’m using my desk!” Adam protested.

“So use your bed,” Rohan said, flipping another page in the novel he obviously wasn’t reading.

“Fine,” Adam said sulkily.

Frankie laid an exercise book on Adam’s desk, and Henry scooted his chair and craned his neck to see.

“That,” Frankie said, pointing. “What the devil is that?”

“It’s a tense,” Henry said.

“Why does it look like that?”

“Like what?” Henry asked patiently.

“Like something evil.”

Henry tried not to laugh. “Because the verbs are irregular. Here, like this.” Henry penciled the verb stems and their meanings into the margin of her notebook.

“That’s it?” Frankie asked, wrinkling her nose.

“Well, no, there’s more of them. Just memorize the verb stems, write them on cards or something, and then you won’t think they’re evil.”

“They’ll still be evil,” Frankie grumbled, collecting her things.

“You’re leaving?” Rohan asked cheerfully.

“Er,” Henry said, ignoring the glare Rohan gave him. “Frankie? Could we swap tutoring?”

“Ask Adam to help you with fencing,” she said.

“No … I meant protocol,” Henry said, his face reddening.

“What, Rohan wouldn’t do it?”

Rohan gave up the pretense of reading. “You never asked,” he accused Henry.

“Because I thought you’d say no,” Henry mumbled.

“I wouldn’t have done,” Rohan said, putting down his book. “Frankie and I will help you together. After all, we can’t have a repeat of this morning.”

“What happened this morning?” Frankie asked. “And I haven’t agreed to tutor you.”

“This morning,” Henry said, willing himself not to sound bitter about it, “Professor Turveydrop asked why I was bowing like a servant bringing in the tea.”

“Oh, dear,” Frankie said with a giggle. “When’s the funeral?”

“Sorry?” Henry asked.

“Didn’t you murder him for that?”

“He didn’t mean anything by it. It was just an unfortunate choice of words.”

“Well, stand up,” Frankie said. “Let’s see it.”

Henry stood up.

“Whom am I addressing?” he asked.

“Lady Winter,” Frankie said grandly, and then giggled as Henry bowed. “Oh, Lord, it is like you’re bringing in the tea.”

“Well, how do I fix it?” Henry asked, annoyed.

“First,” Rohan said, “don’t bow so low. You aren’t meant to truly be humble; after all, you’re a knight yourself. Just show respect, not obedience.”

Henry tried again.

“Better,” Frankie said. “Maybe try it a bit slower.”

Henry went again.

“That’s loads better!” Frankie said.

Henry sighed with relief.

“Yeah, now you bow like a serving woman bringing in the newspaper,” Adam joked.

Henry picked up his pillow and threw it at Adam.

“Hey! I’m injured, so watch it!” Adam protested.

THE MYSTERIOUS LETTERS

Over the next few weeks, Frankie regularly climbed through the boys’ window. Her French improved, and Professor Turveydrop stopped singling out Henry in protocol. Occasionally, Edmund Merrill sat near Henry, Adam, and Rohan’s end of the breakfast table and smiled shyly. All would have been going very well indeed if not for the letters Henry and his friends began to receive.

The first letter, addressed to Henry, arrived five days after the fuss in the library with Jasper and the books. Upon first glance, the envelope did not appear ominous. In fact, it appeared perfectly ordinary, a plain white rectangle, just another piece of post from the stack that Luther, the first-year monitor, handed out at the beginning of breakfast.

“Who’s that from?” Adam asked, leaning over Henry’s shoulder for a better look.

“Dunno,” Henry said, shrugging. He couldn’t think of anyone who would send him a letter. Maybe Professor Stratford, but that seemed unlikely. Or perhaps it was one of Frankie’s jokes.

In any case, there were no clues on the envelope. Just his name and Knightley Academy, Avel-on-t’Hems, for address. Henry ripped open the envelope.

It was empty.

Or so he thought at first.

At least, there was no letter inside.

But there, stuck to the side, was a tiny, grubby newspaper clipping,