large pot and ladle down the table.

Sir Frederick had warned them about the purple soup, but Henry didn’t think it was half bad. Then again, Henry had never had the opportunity to be a picky eater.

Adam, to no one’s surprise, groaned when he saw their starter.

“It’s beetroot,” he said. “My gran used to serve something like this, and it’s bloody awful.”

Rohan, who put down his spoon after one mouthful, had to agree.

Thankfully, the rest of the meal was less alien: roast beef with small, hard potatoes, and a clear jelly for dessert.

“It isn’t fish, is it?” Adam asked, staring at the quivering blocks of jelly.

Henry bravely took a bite.

“Some sort of fruit,” he said.

Adam still made no move to try it.

“Honestly, it’s nice,” Henry said.

“Just checking, mate,” Adam said, finally taking a piece. “I mean, you did like the soup.”

After the meal, the Partisan students put on a small exhibition. There was traditional Nordlandic dance (which, per Adam, looked like a lot of pointless hopping and clapping), a student who juggled daggers, an original orchestral composition by some of the third years, and a masked pantomime done in an Eastern style, which seemed to be a parable about listening to one’s elders.

Adam, despite sleeping for most of the day on the train ride up, yawned through the last half of the pantomime. Henry was tired as well. There was something about sitting for vast quantities of time that was even more exhausting than fencing.

Finally, the exhibition concluded and a Partisan fourth year whose uniform was more heavily decorated than the rest showed them where they would be sleeping.

Henry nearly laughed at the expression on Rohan’s face when they had a look at their sleeping conditions. Sleeping sacks had been laid out on the floor of a cavernous hall, like an enormous indoor camping ground.

Well, Henry thought, it wasn’t as though there were seventy-five extra beds to accommodate the Knightley students, never mind their headmaster or heads of year.

Henry and his friends chose sleeping sacks next to one another, changed into their pajamas, and climbed in.

Candles were blown out, and gradually, the hall filled with soft snores and even softer whispers.

Henry stared up at the high stone ceiling for ages, unable to sleep.

“Hey, Rohan,” Adam whispered.

“What?”

“How do you like sleeping on the floor?” Adam asked.

Henry tried not to smile.

“I’d like it better if you weren’t keeping me awake,” Rohan snapped.

“Oh, that’s right, you’ve got your big fencing match tomorrow,” Adam said.

“Stow it, Adam.” Rohan sighed.

“Sorry,” Adam said, and then, “Hey, Rohan?”

“What?”

“Do you reckon Henry’s asleep?”

“I’m not,” Henry said.

“Oh … well, hey, Henry?”

“Yes?” Henry asked, resisting a very strong urge to sigh.

“I wish Frankie were here.”

“Me too,” Henry said with feeling, knowing that somehow Frankie would have made them laugh over the purple soup and the pantomime, over the sneering Partisan students and their pompous headmaster. “Me too.”

KNIGHTLEY VERSUS PARTISAN

Henry had meant to stay awake until the other students had fallen asleep, and then to have a look around the deserted corridors, but somehow, despite the hard ground and his desire to find out what really went on in the Nordlands, he’d fallen asleep after all.

Angry at himself because of it, Henry buttoned his shirt in silence alongside his classmates in the cavernous hall the next morning.

Rohan looked horrible as they dressed for breakfast, his face a greenish gray.

“You all right, mate?” Adam asked, knotting his tie. “Because you look a bit peaky.”

“I’m perfectly fine,” Rohan snapped.

“Because if you’re ill,” Adam continued, “I could take your place in novice foil.”

“I’m just nervous, that’s all,” Rohan said, straightening his cuffs. “You would be too if everyone stared like you were some sort of heathen.”

Adam reflexively raised his hand to the back of his head, which he’d left bare.

Theobold, who was lacing his boots nearby, looked up.

“You’re both heathens,” he said. “Coming here will do you well to remember it.”

Adam clenched his fists. “It’s your fault I got banned, Theobold. You know Henry and I weren’t cheating.”

“To each what he deserves,” Theobold said, and then narrowed his eyes at Henry. “Why so quiet, Grim? Shouldn’t you jump in to defend your friends like you always do?”

“From what?” Henry asked, rolling up his sleeping sack. “Your words?”

“Remember your place, Grim,” Theobold hissed.

“Leave it alone,” Valmont said, buttoning his jacket. “It’s not worth it.”

“Well I say it is,” Theobold challenged. “Anyway, Beckerman, what’s happened to your little hat?”

“Last call for bets on the tournament!” Jasper Hallworth said, interrupting. “How about you, Grim?”

“Him?” Theobold scoffed. “He hasn’t