small enough to fit in the palm of his hand.

Henry removed the clipping, smoothed it onto his napkin, and frowned.

“What?” Adam asked petulantly. “What’s it say?”

“Rubbish,” Henry said, crumpling the scrap of newspaper and stuffing it into his jacket pocket.

“I want to read it,” Adam whined.

“Trust me, you don’t,” Henry said.

During that afternoon’s hour free, Henry went into the most out-of-the-way toilets—the one in the tower by Lord Havelock’s classroom—and reread the article scrap:

in that tiny Nordlandic prefecture, he found two dozen women and children living in squalor in a tiny basement room of an old schoolhouse, without heat or running water. According to High Inspector Dimit Yascherov of the Nordlandic Policing Agency, and head of Partisan School, the women and children were half frozen, and nearly all suffered from terrible dysentery, and preparations were immediately made for transport to a nearby hospital. Despite the inspector’s claims, the hospital holds no records of treating any women or children who match the description. It has been nine days since the inspector uncovered the illegally operating girls’ school from an anonymous tip, and as of yet, no bodies have been found. In the Nordlands, it is an offense punishable by three years’ hard labor to

Henry shredded the scrap of newspaper into the toilet. Who would send him this? And why?

But then, there was no reason to be upset, Henry reasoned. It was just a joke, a scrap from some gossip magazine whose articles were more serious than most. Or maybe it was from that kitchen maid Liza, who was so keen on conspiracy theories that she hadn’t realized how creepy it would feel to receive it.

Henry had never paid much attention to the post, although he knew sort of hazily that Rohan was always getting letters from home, and once or twice, Adam had received a letter from his sisters that their mother had obviously forced them to write. But when the next morning’s post was distributed, a letter came for Adam.

“My mum is always forcing them to write …, ” Adam complained, tearing open the envelope. “Oi! There’s nothing in here but a scrap of newsprint.”

“Don’t read it,” Henry said darkly. “I’d expect it’s the same as what I got yesterday.”

“Oh, you mean if I read this, I’ll know exactly what was in that mysterious letter you’ve been refusing to talk about?” Adam asked.

“Well, now I’m feeling left out,” Rohan said.

“Trust me, you shouldn’t,” Henry said, quickly telling his friends about the oddly chilling news scrap he’d received.

“That’s awful, mate,” Adam said, smoothing out his piece of newspaper. “Maybe there was a nice wart removal cream advertisement on the back of yours, offering a discount, and that’s what someone meant to send.”

“Right, because my warts are ever so painful these days,” Henry said dryly.

And then, as if through some unspoken agreement, the three friends bent their heads over Adam’s piece of newspaper.

It was a different article, about shops in the Nordlands being forced to close if owners didn’t display portraits of Chancellor Mors in their windows, and about shop looting and vandalism in the dead of night—crimes targeting shops owned by immigrants and those outside the religious majority.

Adam gave his friends a shaky grin once they’d finished reading the scrap of article. He turned it over.

On the back was an innocent advertisement for collapsible top hats.

And written in black ink across the advert: wish you were here.

“Well, that’s odd,” Adam said, pulling a face. “Who’d wish I were inside of a collapsible top hat advert?”

But Henry and Rohan could see that, despite Adam’s joking manner, he too had found the article disturbing.

“I’ll bet it’s Valmont,” Henry whispered the next morning, on their way to chapel.

“I wouldn’t be surprised, after what Frankie threatened to do to him,” replied Rohan.

But at breakfast, no letters arrived. And none came the following day or the day after that.

“Definitely Valmont,” Henry whispered to his friends when Professor Lingua’s back was turned. “Two letters? I mean, it’s a bit pathetic to send just the two and then forget about it, but that’s Valmont.”

The next morning, a letter arrived for Rohan.

“He probably overheard us in languages,” Rohan commented, calmly slitting the envelope with his butter knife. “In any case …” Rohan trailed off and went quite pale.

“What is it?” Adam asked, leaning across the table and trying to make a grab for the letter.

But Rohan wouldn’t show them until they were in private, so the classes that morning and afternoon seemed to go on for an age.

“Let me