told Adam after first lesson, as they ran toward the sick bay to check on Rohan before medicine.

“I know. It’s really strange,” Adam said.

“Strange how?” Henry asked. “Clearly Valmont did this.”

“But how?” Adam asked.

“He could have paid off the cook,” Henry said, and then affected Valmont’s nasty drawl. “ ‘Oh, I do wish there were nuts in the blueberry muffins, like there are in all the best city restaurants.’ ”

“But how would he have known that Rohan was allergic?” Adam asked. “I mean, we didn’t even know. It must have been a coincidence.”

But Henry wasn’t so sure.

They’d reached the sick bay, and the matron, a severe old woman with a hairy mole on the exact center of her chin, glared at them from beneath her nurse’s cap.

“You’re supposed to be in class,” she said witheringly, hands on her wide hips.

“We know, ma’am,” Henry said. “We’ve only just come to check on our friend.”

“He’s resting,” she said, as though they’d insulted her by asking. “No visitors. Go back to class.”

“Yes, ma’am. Sorry,” Henry said, backing down the hallway.

“I … have … an idea,” Adam panted as they sprinted toward medicine.

“What?”

“Let’s fix up … let’s fix up Sick Matron with Lord Ha-Havelock.”

Henry laughed until his sides hurt.

Most of the time he wanted to give Adam a good smack, but sometimes Adam was the only one who made life at Knightley bearable.

Rohan missed the rest of that day’s classes. He showed up for supper, though—a little pale, but smiling.

“Did I miss anything extraordinary?” he asked, pouring himself a glass of cider.

“Just a scintillating lecture on the Reformation,” Adam said. “Why didn’t you tell us that you’re allergic to nuts?”

Rohan shrugged.

“Well, you’re all right now,” Henry said, even though Rohan didn’t look all right at all. There were purplish bruises under his eyes, and his hand trembled as he lifted his cup of cider to take a tiny sip.

“Good as new,” Rohan said, nibbling at the edge of a roasted potato.

Rohan kept up the facade of being recovered for the next hour, until he fell asleep directly after supper, fully dressed, on top of his bed.

“Should we wake him?” Adam asked.

Henry shook his head.

“He’s really ill, Adam. I bet he lied to the sick matron to release him.”

“Well, he did look a bit peaky at supper,” Adam said.

There was a scratch at their window. Henry pushed it open.

“How’s Rohan?” Frankie asked, propping her chin on the windowsill.

“Asleep,” Henry whispered. “Meet you in the library?”

Five minutes later, they’d claimed the study room that Henry had been locked inside the night before.

With a small shudder, Henry left the door open a crack.

“Well, what’s going on?” Frankie asked. “You two dragged Rohan out of breakfast this morning as though he was dying, and then he shows up at supper looking like death warmed up.”

“He’s allergic to nuts,” Henry said.

“So why did he eat them?” Frankie asked.

“It seems Cook created a new dish this morning: the blueberry and nut muffin.”

Frankie winced. “Bad luck,” she said. “And speaking of, I made Professor Stratford cringe with my poetry pronunciation this afternoon. Where were you last night?”

“Here,” Henry said.

“He was locked in,” Adam added.

“All night?” Frankie asked.

Henry nodded. “They should do a plaque. ‘This room is the historic site where Henry Grim was forced to spend the night,’ ” he said.

None of them smiled at the joke.

“This is really bad,” Frankie said. “The point of plastering Valmont’s textbook shut was to put an end to this sort of thing.”

“Well, that was the point,” Henry said, “but clearly it didn’t work and hasn’t for some time. I just want to know how he managed it.”

“We could ask Liza,” Adam said.

“Good idea,” said Frankie.

But it was late, and unless they wanted to break curfew, asking Liza would have to wait.

A DANGEROUS SWORD

The next afternoon in fencing, Henry could hardly concentrate on their form exercise of tossing a small, bean-filled bag back and forth, catching it in a lunge position.

He’d partnered with Rohan, who was definitely off form. His movements were sluggish, and one time, when he dropped the bag, he’d rested a moment on the floor when he stooped to retrieve it, as though exhausted by the warm-up.

“Are you certain you’re feeling all right?” Henry asked as the bag landed a good meter short of his outstretched hand.

“Fine,” Rohan said tensely. “It’s just difficult with your being left-handed.”

“Mr. Mehta! Mr. Grim! Let’s have some energy!” the fencing master cried.

“Yes, sir,” Henry said, tossing the bag toward Rohan.

Rohan, teeth gritted, stepped into a spectacular