the exam. But a tiny voice inside him insisted that there was hope. Hope that if he went to Knightley, he would have a life filled with opportunity, leading to an assured future. A life in which he would be surrounded by people who would become like a family, something he had never known. And he wouldn’t be just Henry anymore. In four years he would kneel and become Sir Henry Grim. It sounded so grand and yet so … impossible.

THE BOY WHO PASSED

When Henry awoke the next morning, he noticed with some relief that Sander had slunk in during the night and was curled up fast asleep in bed.

Henry buttoned his shirt and gave Sander a nudge. “Wake up. You’re on for breakfast.”

Sander groaned.

Henry laced his shoes. “Up, Sander. Come on. You’ll be late.”

Sander opened an eye and rolled over, his cheeks sunken and peppered with stubble. “Don’ feel so good.”

“Stop faking,” Henry said sharply. “Five minutes.”

“Uuuugh, I shouldn’ta bin gamblin’ at the pub las’ night.”

Henry yanked the blanket off Sander. “No, you shouldn’t have been at the pub in the first place, much less gambling there. Now stop laying about and do your job. I’m not getting stuck with your work two days in a row.”

Sander groaned but swung his feet over the side of the bed. “I los’ at cards again,” he moaned. “This week’s wages an’ the last.”

“You’ll lose more than your wages if you don’t watch it,” Henry said, his hand on the doorknob.

Henry performed his morning tasks without thinking, mechanically scrubbing the blackboards and laying out fresh pieces of chalk. It wasn’t until he reached Professor Stratford’s classroom that he snapped out of his fog.

But the professor wasn’t at his desk.

Henry quickly washed the blackboard, his heart pounding. It was nearly time for morning announcements, and for the first time, he was impatient to hear them. He’d tried to put thoughts of Knightley out of his mind that morning, but they had taken up permanent residence and stubbornly refused to budge.

“Even if I pass,” Henry murmured to himself as he wrang out his washrag, “they won’t let me go. I never really thought that they would.”

But this was a lie, and not a very good one at that. The examiner had seemed so kind yesterday, and why else would he have allowed Henry to take the exam? Furthermore, why would Professor Stratford have urged him to take the exam if the results didn’t matter? They had to matter; after all, they mattered to Henry more than anything.

Henry slipped into the dining hall just as breakfast ended, glad that he wouldn’t be forced to take care of the dishes. The large hall smelled of sausage and egg and strong tea, and Henry’s empty stomach grumbled. Sander, pale and sweating, cleared the last of the plates from the High Table and staggered back toward the kitchen.

Suddenly, Henry felt dizzy. He didn’t want to know the results. Not like this, in front of everyone, his disappointment on display. Why couldn’t there have been a list posted quietly outside the library?

Headmaster Hathaway rose from his seat, and Henry gulped, leaning back against the wood-paneled wall for support. His heart thundered, and he felt as though he had flu, or maybe one of Sander’s hangovers.

“Students,” Headmaster Hathaway said, clasping his hands in front of his large belly, “this day’s announcements are brief, as our term draws to its close at the end of next week. We have only one announcement, and I hope you will give a warm welcome to Sir Frederick, chief examiner of Knightley Academy.”

Henry watched nervously as Examiner the Shorter—Sir Frederick—rose and walked to the lectern next to the High Table.

“Thank you, Headmaster Hathaway. As you boys are no doubt aware, eleven of your own took the Knightley Entrance Exam yesterday, and my colleague and I have spent the night evaluating their performance. Admission to Knightley Academy is not granted lightly, and for those of you who did not make it, do not despair. But for any of you who did”—at this, the hall filled with curious whispers—“congratulations.”

Sir Frederick paused for effect and stared at the whispering students until they quieted.

“Yes,” Sir Frederick resumed. “This year there are congratulations in order—to one boy. I would like to extend my sincerest admiration and welcome to the newest pupil at Knightley Academy …”

Smiling apologetically for the interlude, Sir Frederick reached into his pocket and pulled out an envelope bearing the Knightley Academy crest. Valmont had half risen in