the night, toward the scolding sound of her grandmother’s voice.

NEWS FROM THE NORDLANDS

Henry Grim stood at his bedroom window the next afternoon, watching a sleek black car follow the twists and turns in the driveway of Knightley Academy. On his bed sat his suitcase, fully packed, just in case. Adam was sprawled on the floor, playing a complicated game of solitaire with a deck of cards that turned out to be missing the king of diamonds.

“Stupid cards,” Adam muttered, smearing the columns of cards into a pile.

“Someone’s coming,” Henry said.

Adam looked up. “Viscount Whoever?”

Henry nodded, and Adam joined him at the window. Their breath fogged the panes of glass, and Henry wiped away the condensation.

Outside, the driver of the automobile hopped out and opened the door for Viscount DuBeous, helping the pale and trembling man onto the front steps.

“Oi, what’s wrong with him?” Adam asked.

Henry shrugged, remembering the Viscount’s red nose. “Caught a chill?” he suggested.

“Maybe.”

“Well,” Henry said, smiling tightly, “shouldn’t be long now until our hearing.”

And it wasn’t. Within the hour, Lord Havelock rapped smartly on the door to their room.

“Ah,” Lord Havelock said, frowning at Henry and Adam. “I see you’ve packed your things. Given up already?”

“Preparing for the worst, sir,” Henry said, straightening his tie in the glass.

“They’re ready for you. Come along,” Lord Havelock snapped, turning on his heel.

The board of trustees sat around the same table as they had before, and if anything, their disapproving frowns had deepened.

Headmaster Winter resumed the hearing with all of yesterday’s formalities, and then turned to Viscount DuBeous, who looked as though his chill had become flu.

“Erm, right,” said the viscount. “The Nordlands.”

And then he broke into a fit of coughing.

“I found no evidence of combat training,” the Viscount said with a shudder. He put a hand to his forehead, exposing a wrist chafed raw and encrusted with blood.

“What’s this, DuBeous?” asked Lord Ewing, seizing the viscount’s arm and pushing back his sleeve. “These look like rope marks.”

Viscount DuBeous shuddered again, his right eye twitching.

“What’s going on here?” Headmaster Winter asked with a frown.

“I found no evidence of combat training,” Viscount DuBeous repeated, tugging his sleeve down over his wrist.

“How about evidence of torture?” Lord Ewing squeaked, revealing a matching raw band around the viscount’s other wrist.

At the word “torture,” the room buzzed with furious whispers, and Henry caught the name Dimit Yascherov as it passed between Lord Ewing and the storklike gentleman to his right.

Suddenly, Henry remembered where he’d heard the head of Partisan School’s name—in that very first newspaper clipping he’d received about the Nordlands. With some concentration, Henry dredged the passage out of the recesses of his memory:

According to High Inspector Dimit Yascherov of the Nordlandic Policing Agency, and head of Partisan School, the women and children were half frozen, and nearly all suffered from terrible dysentery, and preparations were immediately made for transport to a nearby hospital. Despite the inspector’s claims, the hospital holds no records of treating any women or children who match the description.

“Well, Viscount, is this true? Have you been treated poorly during your journey to the Nordlands?” Headmaster Winter asked.

Viscount DuBeous stared at his lap. He bit his lip. The dark circles under his eyes seemed to deepen, and the cracks in his dry lips seemed to spread as he shook his head.

“Right,” Headmaster Winter said. “Lord Havelock, can you please take the viscount to see our sick matron and make certain he is looked after?”

“Of course,” Lord Havelock said with a bow, helping Viscount DuBeous to his feet and leading the man from the room.

As the door clicked shut, the remaining members of the board of trustees sat in silence, and Headmaster Winter sighed and rubbed at his ginger beard.

“Can anyone tell me,” Lord Ewing asked, breaking the silence, “what has happened to Sir Frederick?”

Henry and Adam rather wondered the same thing.

Headmaster Winter shook his head sadly. “Sir Frederick has disappeared without explanation, no doubt to tend to some emergency.”

Henry exchanged a significant look with Adam. Emergency indeed. Sir Frederick had fled, fearing exposure.

“That’s not true, sir,” Henry said, unable to stop himself.

“I beg your pardon?” Headmaster Winter asked with a frown.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Henry said, “but that’s not true, what you said about Sir Frederick. Yesterday, Adam and I confronted Sir Frederick, and he admitted to plotting against us and trying to get us kicked out of the academy.”

“ ‘Plotting against you?’ ” Headmaster Winter asked.

“It all started with the threatening newspaper clippings in the morning post,” Henry began, listing