a penny to bet with.”

Henry shook his head.

“No, thanks, Jasper.”

“Worth a try,” Jasper said, shrugging. “Knightley’s a sure thing this year, especially with yours truly fencing sabre.”

“I really can’t,” Henry said firmly.

When Jasper left, Adam whispered, “I didn’t bet either. Somehow, it isn’t as much fun when you’re not participating.”

At breakfast they encountered the dreaded fish gelatin, which the Partisan students were enthusiastically spreading on their toast.

There were great quivering blocks of the stuff, inside of which were suspended tiny chunks of fish, including heads and tails, waiting on the tables.

“Eat up,” Henry joked, sipping his tea. “Big day ahead.”

“You first, mate,” Adam said.

Even Henry ate his toast dry that morning.

After breakfast, all of the boys who meant to compete went off to rehearse or review, and Henry, Adam, and a handful of others were left to help with last-minute preparations.

Lord Havelock had volunteered Henry to squire the fencing match, and so Henry missed the opening remarks, instead double-checking that every sword in the fencing anteroom met regulation standards.

“I’m certainly glad to see you,” Rohan said, sitting down next to Henry with some difficulty, as he was already wearing full fencing gear, including the mask.

“Yeah, well, I’ve made sure to put you down for the sword with the loosest bell guard and worst balance,” Henry teased, trying to make Rohan relax.

Rohan’s right leg was bouncing from nerves.

“So everything’s in order?” Rohan asked.

“Just about,” Henry said, ticking a box on his checklist. “How are you holding up?”

Rohan glanced around. The other fencers were congregated on the opposite side of the room, swigging water, doing extra stretches, or pantomiming sword passes.

The older boys, who could elect foil or sabre, were particularly terrifying, practicing moves that looked set to chop an opponent’s head off.

“Is it just me,” Rohan asked, “or are the Partisan students rather … large?”

Henry’s first thought was that Rohan was imagining things, but sure enough, when Henry looked again, he did notice that the Partisan students seemed a bit hulking, especially next to their Knightley challengers. Then again, they were from a different country.

“Don’t worry, you’ll be brilliant,” Henry assured his friend, and then hefted the huge bag of swords. “I have to report to the tournament master with these before we start, but I’ll see you after.”

“Right. After,” Rohan said, looking as though he doubted he’d survive that long.

“I’d wish you luck, but you won’t need it,” Henry said, staggering out of the room under the weight of the swords.

The fencing was set up in a large tournament hall, with spectators from Knightley along one side and spectators from Partisan along the other. Above their respective sides were school banners, and the Partisan students had made pennants, which they waved merrily, cheering for their own.

The two schools’ fencing masters were set to referee, with Henry handling the scoreboard. A Partisan squire was situated at the opposite end of the hall with a large megaphone, interpreting the judges’ calls and announcing the contestants.

Henry sat behind a large wooden scoreboard. Nearby he had set aside the first two foils to wait for their respective contestants. He stared out at the Partisan crowd in their fur-trimmed uniforms, waving their pennants, and at the Knightley students, cheering and clapping in their stiff, formal coats and caps. He spotted Adam standing with Luther and Edmund, applauding along with the rest.

Somehow, without their noticing, they had become part of Knightley, Henry thought. And then, turning his attention back to the scoreboard, Henry waited, his heart pounding, for the games to begin.

“And now, in novice fencing,” the Partisan squire called, and the first contestants stepped forward, accepting their designated swords from Henry, “James St. Fitzroy of Knightley Academy against Luon Muirwold of Partisan School, fencing foil to five hits.”

James and Luon took their places across from each other on the piste, waiting for the signal to start.

Henry’s view at the scoreboard was from behind James, and the match began so quickly that Henry nearly missed it, with James and Luon meeting at the center of the piste, and James landing a quick hit.

Knightley cheered, and Henry hung a “1” on the scoreboard for James.

The players returned to their ends of the piste and went again, but it wasn’t much of a contest—Knightley continued cheering as James swiftly dispatched his opponent with a final score of 5–1.

Henry reset the scoreboard to 0–0 as James and Luon shook hands and returned their swords.

“Well done,” Henry whispered to James, and James, his blond hair matted to his head with