lunge and made the catch.

“Watch that front leg, Mehta,” the fencing master said, walking over. “It needs to be in line with your sword arm, not diagonal. Go again, without the bag.”

Rohan gamely took his stance and lunged again.

“Good. Again!” the fencing master cried.

Rohan went again. His face was ashen and sweat trickled down his temples.

“Again!” called the fencing master.

“Sir,” Henry said, “Rohan isn’t well.”

“Is that so, Mr. Mehta?” the fencing master asked.

Rohan looked for a moment as though he was going to deny it. But Henry gave him a stern glare and Rohan nodded.

“Yes, sir. Allergic reaction. I spent yesterday in the sick bay.”

“Switch into the beginners for today,” the fencing master said. “Grim can take your place in the intermediates until you’re recovered, and after that, we’ll see. I was going to promote him soon, anyway.”

“Yes, sir,” Henry said, flushing with pride.

“Yes, sir,” Rohan said weakly, putting his hands on his knees to catch his breath from the lunges.

Adam shot Henry a questioning glance when the class divided into skill levels and Henry went off with the intermediates.

“What’s going on?” Adam asked, taking his usual sword from where they were stowed in the gear cubbies.

“I’ve been promoted.”

“Well, congratulations, mate.”

“Thanks,” Henry said, turning around so Adam could help fasten his kit.

“What’s this?” Valmont asked, putting on his glove. “Where’s Indian boy?”

“That’s rude,” Henry said. “And he’s ill. I trust you know why.”

“Living with you would make anyone ill, servant boy,” Valmont said.

“Oh, how terribly clever,” Henry retorted.

“Intermediates,” the fencing master called. “Partner up! First to three hits rotates to challenge the winner of the pair two over.”

Henry looked at Adam. “Fancy a bout?” he asked.

“I’ll beat you with my eyes closed, you know,” Adam said cheerfully.

“Better you than Valmont.” Henry said darkly. “He’d beat me with my back turned.”

Adam laughed. “Fair enough.”

With their masks on, the intermediates lined up at the far end of the room.

Henry could see the beginners at the other end doing advance-retreat exercises.

You’ve been promoted, he thought, willing himself to feel happy. But all he felt was nervous.

With a salute, Henry settled into his fencing crouch and hoped Adam wouldn’t make him look too horrible.

Adam shot forward, sword outstretched, and Henry approached carefully. He was a cautious fencer, he’d discovered recently, always thinking and strategizing, always looking for an opening rather than taking his chances. Adam was just the opposite.

So fast that Henry could hardly believe it, Adam’s sword shot out.

Henry riposted in retreat, and then, sensing an opening, lowered his back arm to signal attack and lunged.

“Off target, mate,” Adam called, his voice muffled by the mesh visor.

He was right. Henry had struck Adam at the collarbone.

“Sorry,” Henry said, and they resumed the bout.

They finished 3–1 Adam, and the only surprise was that Henry had managed to land a hit at all. Adam was easily one of the top three fencers in their year.

The pair two over was finishing as well. With their gear on, it was difficult to tell their classmates apart, but Henry had no trouble realizing that it was Valmont and Theobold they’d be facing.

“Who won?” Henry asked, walking over.

“Not you, obviously,” Valmont said, sounding eerily like his uncle.

“No,” Henry said.

“Well, it was three-oh, my victory,” Valmont drawled, “but I have a proposal. I’d rather fence you than Jewish boy.”

“Would you stop with the names?” Henry asked. “It’s rude.”

“So what do you say? You and me, Beckerman and Theobold.”

“You’re on,” Henry said, dashing back over to Adam to let him know what was happening.

“You’re joking,” Adam said.

“You don’t want to?” Henry asked.

“No, I do. Theobold’s rubbish. I’d love to slaughter him.”

It was settled.

Henry took his place across from Valmont, his heart clamoring crazily. He didn’t expect to win. But maybe he could land a hit and wipe that awful smirk off Valmont’s face, repay him for all those horrible acts of the past week …

Valmont flicked his wrist slightly in the most pathetic salute Henry had ever seen. Henry returned the wrist-flick-as-salute and settled his stance.

Their swords clashed, and Henry disengaged to the outside, pressing his left-hander’s advantage.

Valmont growled beneath his mask and struck a hit that landed off target. Henry used the outside angle and glanced a small blow off Valmont’s chest.

“Hit,” he called.

“I didn’t feel anything,” Valmont said.

“It was a hit,” Henry insisted.

“Liar,” Valmont hissed.

“You’re the liar,” Henry retorted. “Fine. It isn’t worth the aggravation. Let’s go again.”

Valmont adjusted his grip, and Henry tried to slow his breathing. It had been a hit.

Valmont rushed forward, looking for an opening,