the three of them realized that Rohan really had gone. Because there was no one to talk sense. No one to tell them not to. No advice, no voice of reason, no disapproving stare or exasperated sigh.

“Thank you for the sword,” Henry said.

“Any time,” Frankie said.

“You should probably find your grandmother and convince her that you haven’t died,” Henry said.

“If she thought I had, do you suppose she’d go home?” Frankie asked.

“Maybe you could fake your own death anyway,” Adam suggested.

“If you need a blood-soaked hair ribbon, just ask Adam,” Henry said with a small smile.

“Hey!” Adam protested.

“What are you talking about?” Frankie asked, wrinkling her nose.

“Never mind,” Henry said quickly. “See you tomorrow.”

“If I haven’t perished,” Frankie called merrily.

Henry tried not to stare at Rohan’s bare desk as he studied that night. He tried not to stare at Rohan’s empty bed or the gaping space in the wardrobe where Rohan’s clothes had been.

The room felt too big now for just the two of them.

Adam mentioned this as he and Henry got ready for chapel the next morning.

“I know,” Henry said, checking Rohan’s pocket watch. “Come on, we don’t want to be late.”

“Speak for yourself,” Adam said, stifling a yawn. “Because I, for one, would love to be late for chapel, or perhaps to miss it all together.”

Henry rather felt the same. Especially since the priest chose that morning to give a lengthy sermon about stealing.

“Well, that was subtle,” Henry joked on the way to breakfast.

“What was subtle?” Adam asked.

Henry laughed. “Exactly,” he said.

“No, seriously, what was subtle, mate?”

Henry shook his head. “Never mind. I’m going to dash back to the room and grab Frankie’s foil. I’ll meet you at breakfast.”

It was fortunate that Henry had borrowed the foil from Frankie, as the left-handed equipment was once again missing from the armory.

Pleased he’d managed to thwart their saboteur, Henry put on his glove and lined up with the rest of the intermediates.

The fencing master, to his credit, tried not to mention Rohan’s absence.

“I’ll be assigning pairs today,” the fencing master said. “Five touches per usual, and report back to me with the results. I’d like to get an idea of whether we should add an advanced level to the class.”

Adam grinned at the news of an advanced level, and continued grinning as he was matched up to fence Max Pearson, one of James’s friends whose lunges were always crooked.

“Grim, you’ll be fencing Archer,” the fencing master said.

Henry tried not to sigh. Was he always destined to go up against Valmont and Theobold in foil? He took his place across from Theobold and gave his salute, which Theobold made no move to return.

“You’re supposed to salute,” Henry called.

“And you’re supposed to scrub the floors,” Theobold returned.

Henry sighed.

Ever since he’d come to a sort of understanding with Valmont, Theobold had, if anything, become worse, focusing all of his hatred on Henry and his friends now that Valmont had backed down.

Edmund had been right—Theobold was the worse of the two.

“Let’s just go,” Henry said, still crouched in an “on guard” position.

Henry easily scored the first touch.

He hadn’t fenced Theobold before, but he could certainly see what Adam had meant about Theobold’s form. Instead of working on improving, Theobold fought as though winning were the most important part, as though every practice match was a bloody battle that had to be won.

If Henry just slowed down for a moment and looked for an opening or an advantage, he always found one.

Henry scored the second touch as well.

Theobold was overconfident, striking out without making certain that he could protect the outside—a foolish move, especially with Henry’s being left-handed.

“Two-zero,” Henry called, returning to his end of the piste.

Theobold snarled and they went again, Henry angling right for the outside and scoring his third hit.

“Three-oh,” Henry called.

“Wait,” Theobold said, reaching out and grabbing at Henry’s sword. “What’s this?”

“Left-handed foil,” Henry said with a shrug.

“No, it’s not. Let me see it.”

Before Henry could protest, Theobold had grabbed the bell guard and pulled the sword from his hand.

“It’s a left-handed foil,” Henry said, trying not to let doubt creep into his voice. What else could it be?

Theobold called for the fencing master, and Henry suddenly had a very bad feeling.

“What seems to be the problem?” the fencing master asked.

“Grim’s sword,” Theobold said, handing the weapon to the fencing master, who turned it over in his hands with a deep frown.

“What’s wrong with it?” Henry asked.

“For one thing, it doesn’t belong to this armory,” the fencing master said, indicating the