the priority. Hardly daring to believe it, Henry lunged forward—and tripped.

He sprawled hands-down onto the wooden floor, landing with a theatrical slap! Valmont, in the middle of an attempted riposte, lost his balance as well, tripping over Henry.

Henry, his face crimson with embarrassment beneath his mask, climbed to his feet.

“Sorry,” he said, offering Valmont a hand up.

Valmont sat on the floor, his sword forgotten at his side, his gloved hand grasping his ankle.

“You filthy servant,” Valmont sneered, pushing Henry’s hand away.

“I’m sorry,” Henry said again, angrily this time, hating that he was apologizing to Valmont for something that wasn’t even really his fault. “But are you going to be all right?”

Valmont struggled to his feet.

“Fine,” he snapped. But Henry could see that Valmont was favoring his right leg, making no move to put any weight on it.

“Is it sprained?” Henry asked, only now aware of their audience. The other boys had abandoned their bouts, preferring to stare at Henry and Valmont, who were known to be rivals.

“Of course not,” Valmont snapped, bending to pick up his sword.

Valmont adjusted his grip and made as though he wanted to continue the bout.

Henry switched the foil to his left hand, deciding to ignore the hindrance of having a right-handed grip plate.

“You’re certain you’re all right?” Henry asked again.

Valmont grunted and gave a small salute. His weight was still on his left leg, Henry noticed.

Valmont took a step forward, but it was more of a limp.

Henry lowered his foil to his side. “It is sprained,” he accused.

“Mr. Grim! Mr. Valmont! I saw you take a spill. Is everything sorted?” the fencing master shrilled.

Henry shook his head. “No, sir. Valmont’s injured his ankle.”

“So many injuries!” the fencing master cried, throwing up his hands in defeat. “Mr. Grim, please take Mr. Valmont to the sick matron for a cold compress.”

“Yes, sir,” Henry said, and then to Valmont, “come on, let’s go.”

“I’m perfectly fine, servant boy,” Valmont snapped.

“Don’t call me that,” Henry returned. “And no, you’re not. You need to put cold on or else it could swell.”

“Look at you, playing nursemaid,” Valmont taunted, taking off his mask and glove.

“More like remembering what we’ve been taught in medicine.”

Valmont took a few careful steps, putting as little weight as possible on his right foot. “I can go myself.”

“So go, then,” Henry snapped.

Valmont hobbled toward the door of the armory. The other students, although feigning that they had resumed their bouts, stared.

Henry felt a knot settle in the pit of his stomach as he watched Valmont limp off toward the sick matron by himself. It’s just Valmont, he told himself severely. You hate him. But even so, he looks hurt and … alone.

Henry sighed and followed after Valmont.

“What are you doing?” Valmont asked. He’d stopped in the corridor outside the armory and was leaning against the wall.

“I’m helping you to the sick matron,” Henry said. “What does it look like?”

Henry slung Valmont’s arm around his neck, and they made their way to the sick bay in horrible silence.

“You again!” the sick matron clucked at Henry.

Henry reddened. It was rather starting to seem that way.

“Valmont’s hurt his ankle,” Henry said, and then turned and marched out of the sick bay.

“Not staying with your friend, dearie?” the sick matron called after Henry.

“He’s not my friend,” Henry muttered.

Valmont hadn’t returned by the end of the lesson, so everyone headed to languages without him.

“He’s probably faking to get out of lessons,” Adam said as they passed beneath the gruesome unicorn tapestry on the way to Professor Lingua’s class.

“If he fakes too convincingly, perhaps they’ll amputate it,” Rohan said with a small smile.

“We can only hope,” Adam said. “Oi, Henry. Look alive, mate.”

“Sorry,” Henry said, shaking his head to clear it. On top of being lost in thought about visiting the Nordlands that weekend, he couldn’t forget how Theobold, Valmont’s only friend, hadn’t cared at all when Valmont limped off to the sick matron.

“Listen, Adam, we should be partners today,” Henry said after far too long a silence.

“Really?” Adam asked. “Because I thought you were all about my learning French rather than copying your work.”

“That was before,” Henry said.

Before. Already it seemed like ages ago, the days when Frankie would climb through their window with a deck of cards and a sly grin, convincing them to put aside their homework for a game or two. The days when their biggest worry was Valmont’s bullying, when Adam’s enormous appetite prompted midnight forays to the kitchens.

Professor Lingua waddled into the classroom with an armload of books,