"No!"

"That's where he got the earring." Edmund said. "Our father wanted him betrothed to some girl who did nothing but embroider his initials onto handkerchiefs, and he ran off to create an enormous scandal so her family would refuse."

Henry shook his head in awe at Peter's nerve, as the fencing master strode into the room. They went through the usual warm-up stretches and lunges before the fencing master cleared his throat and removed a foil from the weapons cabinet.

"We're learning the fleche today, gentlemen," he said. "Kit up and choose a partner."

"Henry?" Derrick said, and at the same moment Pevensey caught Henry's attention.

"Partners?" Edmund asked cheerfully, tossing Henry the left-handed glove.

Henry snorted in amus.e.m.e.nt. He hadn't antic.i.p.ated that after three meetings of the battle society everyone would want to be his partner in fencing. He looked over to Valmont, who was handling the same problem with apparent relish.

"Er, right, Derrick," Henry said. "And Edmund can go with Pevensey?"

Edmund shrugged.

"Why not?" Pevensey said, pa.s.sing Edmund a blade. "I thought you were rubbish at giving orders," Derrick whispered.

"Guess I'm getting better at it," Henry whispered back, trying to pay attention to the fencing master's explanation of how to transfer one's weight onto the front foot and cross the back leg over, simultaneous with an attack.

"Do you know," Derrick said sadly, "this move isn't really my forte."

Henry snickered at the pun.

"Gentlemen!" the fencing master called.

"Sorry, maestro," Henry and Derrick chorused.

The fourth battle society meeting brought with it two more students from second year. Following the chapters in Pugnare, they practiced falling so as not to get hurt, slapping the ground as they went down to make it look as though they'd sustained a greater injury. Peter taught everyone how to set an opponent off balance and burst his eardrums by cuffing him around the ears. He showed them how to deliver an elbow to the chin and temple, and how to break an opponent's nose with the palm of your hand. And despite his earlier worries, Edmund crept in only a little late, grinning triumphantly at his escape.

There was no denying it-the battle society was a success, but not only in the way Henry had thought. Jasper and Geoffrey had taken to the role of mischievous older brothers, tousling the first years' hair in the hallways and shooting contraband peas at their backs in the library. Edmund's fencing improved, and Henry noticed new friendships forming among the first years. Theobold was so baffled by the subtle changes among his cla.s.smates that he sometimes forgot to order Valmont around the way he had at the beginning of term. And when the newspapers carried a troubling piece of news from the Nordlands-the public hanging of a corrupt government official-the first years discussed the news openly, debating theories over breakfast and hastily pulling down their sleeves over fresh bruises from weapons practice.

"I think we should start archery," Henry whispered to Valmont after chapel one morning.

"Absolutely not," Valmont snarled, pulling Henry into a corner so that they wouldn't be overheard. "We've barely begun the broadsword."

"But the broadsword has a limited range," Henry argued.

"I thought we were following the book, Grim," Valmont retorted.

"We don't know how much time we have," Henry pressed. "We could be found out at any-Oh, no."

Frankie had caught sight of them. She flounced over in a horribly impractical dress composed mostly of ruffles.

"Be nice," Henry muttered to Valmont.

Frankie had been largely ignoring Henry and his friends ever since the incident in Professor Stratford's office, and the truth was, Henry had been so caught up with the battle society that he'd scarcely noticed her absence, although Adam was forever whining about how much he missed beating her at cards.

"Well, if it isn't the most popular boys in first year," said Frankie.

"I haven't a clue what you're talking about," Henry returned.

"Don't you?" Frankie asked, blinking her wide blue eyes at him, a picture of innocence. Henry realized with a sinking feeling that perhaps they weren't being as discreet about the battle society as he'd hoped.

"Er, how's your French coming?" Henry asked, trying to change the subject.

"I'm actually doing Greek," she said with a grin.

"Greek!" Valmont scoffed, and Henry elbowed him.

"She isn't really," Henry patiently explained. "She just wants you to say something horrible so she can feel superior. Isn't that right, Frankie?"

Frankie made a horrible face. "I'm not the one who has a problem with feeling superior," she shot back. "You two are hiding something, and I'm going to find out what it is."

"Ooh, I'm terrified," Valmont mocked.

"You should be," Frankie warned. Without giving either boy the chance to respond, she stomped away, leaving Henry to brood about her threat for the rest of the morning.

"Frankie thinks I'm hiding something," Henry complained to Adam as they slipped into their seats in Medicine.

"That's because you are," Adam whispered back.

"Should I be worried?" Henry asked.

"Nah." Adam wasn't very convincing.

Henry brooded some more as Sir Robert explained the purpose of a tourniquet and asked Conrad to help with the demonstration.

Conrad went pale. "Can you do someone else, sir?"

Sir Robert nodded. "Adam Beckerman, you're up, lad."

Adam gave a weak smile. "Don't suppose I could pa.s.s as well, sir?" he asked hopefully.

"Nonsense!" said Sir Robert. "Roll up a sleeve and get going. We haven't got all morning."

"Of course, sir," Adam said as he walked to the front of the room and rolled up his left sleeve. His arm was mottled with bruises, one of them a particularly lovely shade of mustard, the rest in varying tones of purple.

"What have you done to yourself, lad?" Sir Robert asked with genuine concern.

"I, er, tripped," Adam said.

Sir Robert didn't look for a moment as though he believed it. "The other arm, then," he said.

Adam rolled up his right sleeve. There was a large fading bruise along that forearm as well. "Cricket, sir," he said sheepishly.

Sir Robert shook his head and continued with his demonstration.

After the lesson Conrad caught up with Henry and Adam. "Sorry, Adam," Conrad said. "I was practicing extra falls last night, and my arms are frightful. He wouldn't have believed I'd tripped."

"I don't think he believed me, either," Adam said.

"Well, really," Henry admonished. "Cricket? No one's played in weeks. The grounds are covered in ice."

"Oh, right." Adam said.

Before the students knew it the half-term exams were upon them. Everyone crowded miserably into the library and hunched over thick stacks of notes, muttering terms and verbs and dates.

"What's an example of a pa.s.sive periphrastic?" Adam whined.

Henry looked up from his protocol notes. "Sorry. What?"

"Pa.s.sive periphrastic," Adam repeated.

"Er, how about *Nordlands delenda est'?" Henry suggested.

Across the table Derrick and Rohan collectively snorted into their own Latin books.

"I wish you'd stop making jokes in Latin," Adam muttered.

"Would you rather I made them in French?" Henry asked.

For a moment Adam thought Henry was being serious.

"Sorry," Henry said quickly. "But that was a real example. You can subst.i.tute any name. It's just the *delenda est' part that you need to know." He turned his attention back to his protocol notes and was trying to decipher a hastily scribbled line that couldn't possibly say something about fish custard-although it certainly looked as though it did-when a whispered argument broke out at a nearby table.

Theobold and Crowley were trying to get a look at Valmont's military history notes. "b.u.g.g.e.r off!" Valmont whispered. "Look at your own notes."

"But yours are so much more complete," Theobold said with a grin. "I think we should trade."

"I don't," Valmont returned.

"Maybe you didn't hear what Theobold said," Crowley spat. "Hand them over."

"Go rot, Crowley," Valmont said, slamming his notebook.

Crowley looked furious, but Theobold merely held up a hand. "I don't know what's gotten into you lately, Fergus," Theobold said icily. "Maybe you want to call off our deal?"

"Maybe I do," Valmont muttered, but he sounded unsure.

"Don't be hasty now," Theobold said. "Think it over. You have until supper."

Crowley grinned and kicked the side of Valmont's chair with his boot. Valmont fumed silently.

When Henry crept down to the battle society room after supper for a spot of target practice, he found Val-mont already in the room, landing blow after blow to the sack of flour they'd strung up as a makeshift punching bag.

The battle society was coming along better than Henry could have hoped. Meetings were far less formal now; students worked on archery, broadsword, or hand-to-hand combat as they chose. Gone were the easy nights in the common room, the free hours spent exploring the castle or watching cricket practice.

And when Henry did have a spare moment, he mostly used it to peruse the books he'd rescued along with Pugnare. One book in particular was filled with oddly useful tidbits. Henry was reading it the night before the military history exam when he came across a note on how coins could be used as throwing darts if their edges were sharpened against a whetstone.

"Hmmm," Henry said aloud.

"What?" Adam asked, looking up from his bed, where he was sprawled on his stomach and glaring at his military history notes.

"Nothing. Sorry," Henry muttered. He supposed he ought to be studying for Lord Havelock's examination, but he'd already memorized his notes, and anyway, there were only twenty minutes until lights-out.

He pulled on his boots.

Rohan glanced up from his desk, where he'd been sitting and writing out practice essays, an exercise that Henry considered unnecessarily torturous. "Going to practice?" Rohan asked with a frown.

Henry shook his head. "Kitchen."

"Bring me back something?" Adam asked hopefully.

Henry snorted.

"What do you want?"

"Another orange. I ate mine," Adam admitted.

"You're not supposed to eat them," Henry said.

"I was hungry," Adam protested.

Henry paused with his hand on the doork.n.o.b. "I'll see if they have something chocolatey as well," he said.

Adam grinned triumphantly.

The oranges had been Conrad's idea, actually. The fencing master at Easton had made the boys sit and manipulate oranges with their fencing hands as a way to strengthen their grips. Conrad had mentioned it in an offhand sort of way over lunch two days before, when everyone had been fretting over the languages exam.

The moment the exam had been over, Henry had gone to the kitchens and begged a bowl of oranges. He felt rather silly sitting and turning an orange around in circles, but it wasn't difficult to do while studying.

The kitchen, when he reached it, was freshly scrubbed, the lights dim. Liza sat with her stocking feet propped upon a stool, reading the Tattleteller and eating a chocolate biscuit with apparent relish.

"It's just me," Henry said, but Liza jumped anyway.

"Master Henry, you gave me a fright!" she said, putting her hand to her heart as though checking to make sure it hadn't quietly stopped working.

"I'm sorry," Henry apologized with a deep bow, knowing how much Liza enjoyed it. "I just came to see if you'd heard any more gossip-and to use the whet-stone."

"O' course I heard more gossip. I'm always hearin' things. But what I'm hearin' ain't always worth repeatin'."

"Tell me the best of it, then," Henry said, locating the whetstone and taking a handful of pennies from his pocket.