of her arm.

“I was never adopted,” Henry said.

“I see.” Grandmother Winter’s lips puckered as though she had just discovered that the lemon tarts had been baked without sugar.

“Mr. Grim has been helping me with my French,” Frankie said.

“Is that so?” Grandmother Winter asked.

“Yes, madam. I previously studied under Professor Stratford as well.”

“And how much is Francesca paying you for these lessons?” Grandmother Winter asked.

“Nothing, madam,” Henry said, his cheeks burning.

“We really ought to be going,” Rohan said with an apologetic smile.

“Nonsense, Mr. Mehta,” Grandmother Winter said. “I wouldn’t dream of your leaving without consulting Francesca about the theft of this family heirloom.”

“Yes, madam,” Rohan replied. “Well, Miss Winter, have you an opinion on the matter?”

Frankie blinked her wide blue eyes as though she hadn’t a thought in her head. She giggled and glanced down demurely.

“Perhaps you should consult my father,” she said. “He is such a clever man and I know how dear this object must have been to Mr. Beckerman. I do so hope this was all a misunderstanding and there is another explanation besides theft.”

Henry tried very hard not to register any surprise as Frankie secretly told them what she really thought. “Thank you for your opinion,” he said.

Frankie twirled a curl around one finger and blushed sweetly.

“Yes, and thank you for the visit,” Grandmother Winter said, standing up.

The boys scrambled to their feet.

“Oh, and Mr. Grim?” Grandmother Winter asked. “J’espere que vous etes un bon instructeur.”

“Moi aussi, madam, mais le question n’est pas si je suis un bon instructeur mais si Francesca est une bonne etudiante.”

Grandmother Winter inclined her head slightly and gave Henry a brief hint of a smile.

“You speak very pretty French, Mr. Grim. That is all.”

THE CONSEQUENCES OF FAILURE

Oh, you speak such pretty French,’ ” Adam mocked as they walked toward the thatch cottage where Headmaster Winter kept his office.

“Do shut up, Adam,” Henry snapped.

“Yes, please do,” Rohan echoed. “You’ve caused enough trouble as it is.”

“What did I do?” Adam pouted.

“ ‘Frankie, you busy?’ ” Henry mocked.

“Oh, that,” Adam said, reddening.

The headmaster’s office, when they reached it, was at the end of an imposing corridor lined with portraits of past headmasters. A door twice as tall as could reasonably be expected to fit the space loomed at the end, bearing a shiny plaque: office of the grand chevalier lord anthony winter, headmaster of knightley academy.

Henry nervously raised a fist and knocked.

“Yes?” a cross voice called from inside.

“Headmaster Winter?” Henry called back. “We’d like to report a theft.”

The door opened, and there was Headmaster Winter, his waistcoat covered in biscuit crumbs, wearing a pair of bedroom slippers with his rumpled pin-striped trousers.

“No, don’t tell me your names. Let me guess,” the headmaster said, surveying the three students. “Adam Beckerman, Henry Grim, and Rohan Mehta. Am I right?”

“Yes, sir,” the boys said, surprised that the headmaster knew their names.

“Well, come inside.”

Headmaster Winter’s office was rather shocking; it had once been grand, that much was clear from the damask wallpaper and marble mantelpiece, but the grandness had been crowded out by rumpled newspapers, a half-eaten tea service long gone cold, a pile of maps, a hat rack hung with a dozen brightly colored umbrellas, and a windowsill jammed with potted plants that looked to be gasping for their last breath.

Thankfully, there was a squashy sofa facing the headmaster’s desk, and the boys collapsed into it at Headmaster Winter’s invitation.

“A theft, you say?” the headmaster asked with a frown. “And you’ve consulted your head of year … Lord Havelock?”

“Not quite,” Henry admitted. “We didn’t want to bother him.”

“I see,” the headmaster said, eyes twinkling as though he guessed that Henry and his friends were terrified of their head of year. “And the theft occurred just minutes ago, I am assuming, after which you rushed straight here?”

“Erm, not exactly,” Adam said.

Headmaster Winter stared at them expectantly.

Henry sighed. “We went by your house first and had, er, tea.”

Headmaster Winter groaned.

“We didn’t mean to,” Henry hastily assured him. “The maid let us in thinking we were looking for Professor Stratford … and then it was too late.”

“Yes, I’d rather suspect it would be,” the headmaster said as though enjoying a private joke.

“This is rather serious, sir,” Rohan said. “Our room has been burgled.”

They told Headmaster Winter all about it. How the drawers had been rifled through and the mattresses moved. How nothing was missing besides Adam’s necklace.

“Are you often the target of such misdeeds?” Headmaster Winter asked.

It would have been so easy to tell the headmaster everything. How it had all