Liza watched suspiciously as Henry wrapped a tea towel around his hand and began to sharpen one of the coins. "Wha's that for?"

"Er, extra credit for Medicine. It's just an experiment to do with, er, scalpel width," Henry fibbed, gingerly touching the edge of his sharpened coin. It drew blood.

"Oh," Liza said, suddenly disinterested. "Have you 'eard about the medical experiments?"

"Medical experiments?" Henry asked, sharpening another coin.

"In the Nordlands. People keep disappearin', an' when they come back, they ain't right. They're missin' fingers or toes or worse."

"You think people are being kidnapped and experimented on in the Nordlands? Why would anyone do that?"

Liza took a bite of her biscuit and sighed with annoyance. "Ain't no need for a reason."

"Actually, there is," Henry argued. "Experiments have a purpose. Otherwise it's just torture." Henry carefully put the sharpened pennies into his pocket.

"Do you have any more oranges, Liza?" he asked.

Liza huffed and pretended to be annoyed, but told Henry he could help himself to the fruit in the larder. He took a few pieces and wrapped them in his blazer.

"An' you can take these back for yer friends," Liza said testily, handing Henry a stack of chocolate-covered biscuits.

"Thank you," Henry said.

"Get out of here," she muttered, but her frown quickly gave way to an indulgent grin.

Henry walked back down the darkened corridor with his armload of oranges and biscuits, hurrying because of lights-out. He wondered what made Liza so certain that the Nordlands were carrying out medical experiments. Experiments needed motive; they were for building or developing something. Henry was suddenly reminded of the series of articles about the Nordlandic mental asylum and how the patients had been found with their tongues split down the middle-torture, or another medical experiment?

No. Henry shook his head and told himself to be reasonable. But the more that he thought about it, the less far-fetched it seemed that the Nordlands were working on something very sinister indeed.

"Caught you!" a voice called, and Henry nearly cried in fright before realizing that he wasn't doing anything wrong. He turned.

Frankie sat on the bench outside the archway to the first-year corridor, with a dark lantern at her side and a triumphant grin.

"Doing what?" Henry asked mildly.

"Sneaking," Frankie said. "I knew you were up to something, and I told you that I'd find out sooner or later."

"I wasn't sneaking," Henry said. "It isn't even lights-out."

At that moment Lord Havelock emerged from his room wearing a spectacularly mauve dressing gown emblazoned with golden lions. Henry gulped and squeezed himself onto the bench next to Frankie, hoping their head of year couldn't see around the corner.

"Shut your lights, gentlemen," Lord Havelock ordered, flipping the switch that dimmed the electric wall sconces in the corridor to a dull flicker.

Thankfully, their head of year disappeared back into his room. Henry breathed a sigh of relief. And then realized that he was sitting uncomfortably close to Frankie. In a dark hallway. Alone.

He scrambled to his feet and regarded Frankie coldly. She scowled up at him.

"I have to go," Henry said. "I have an exam in the morning."

"Not until you show me what you're hiding in your jacket," Frankie said, making a grab for Henry's school blazer. She caught the sleeve, and oranges bounced everywhere. The biscuits dropped to the floor and crumbled. Frankie turned bright red.

And then Lord Havelock's door opened.

"Quick!" Henry cried, pressing Frankie back onto the bench. Neither of them dared to breathe. Henry was suddenly quite aware that Frankie was-well, a girl. Their biggest problem wasn't being caught in the corridor after lights-out. It was being caught in the dark together on a bench.

Frankie clung to him, her eyes wide with fright.

After an eternity Lord Havelock's door creaked shut. Henry breathed a sigh of relief, but he didn't feel relieved at all-he'd done nothing wrong. Frankie was forever getting him into trouble by acting as though she were one of the boys.

Henry shot Frankie a brutal glare and gathered the oranges. "Come on," he whispered, opening the door to his room.

Adam and Rohan were both in bed, although Adam was trying to study beneath the covers, which he'd pulled into a tent over his head.

"Frankie!" Rohan exclaimed, none too enthusiastically.

Adam emerged from the tent and waved h.e.l.lo. "Oh, good," he said cheerfully. "Are we friends again?"

"Definitely not," Henry said.

"Not a chance," Frankie retorted at the same moment.

"Two things," Henry told her. "The first is that I want an apology. You had absolutely no right. And the second is that you're leaving through the window. It'll only cause more trouble if you're caught wandering around the school corridors at this hour."

"Fine," Frankie mumbled. "I'm sorry. I made a mistake."

"Obviously," Henry said. "What did you think I was doing?"

"I don't know," Frankie muttered. "I thought-I-I'm sorry, all right?"

"I suppose," Henry said, shrugging.

Frankie boosted herself onto the window ledge. "Nice pajamas," she called, grinning at Rohan, who gave a long-suffering sigh.

"Good night, Frankie," Rohan said pointedly.

Frankie hopped out the window and then leaned her head back in. "One last thing," she said. "Just because you weren't sneaking tonight doesn't mean I was wrong about your sneaking."

14.

THE UNFORGIVABLE WORDS.

Supper the next evening felt like a celebration, as half-term exams were over. The tension that had built over the previous two weeks magically evaporated, leaving a gloriously free weekend in its wake.

Henry meant to shut himself in the now empty library and finish translating Pugnare after supper. But as he was leaving the dining hall, someone called his name.

Professor Stratford was hurrying toward him across the crowded dining hall.

"Hallo," Henry said, trying to calculate how many weeks it had been since he'd paid his former tutor a visit. Too many, he realized belatedly.

"Don't suppose you've forgotten about me?" Professor Stratford joked, but Henry wasn't fooled. He could see the professor was hurt, and he felt awful about it.

"Sorry," Henry muttered. "There were exams-"

"Oh, I know," Professor Stratford said dryly. "I haven't missed the celebrations."

Henry grinned. Peter had led some of the third years through a boisterous round of raunchy pub songs over supper until Sir Franklin had shushed them.

"I'd enjoy having you over for tea tomorrow afternoon," Professor Stratford persisted. "Bring your friends, if you'd like. New friends, even."

Henry's smile faded. How could he go to tea and lie to the professor about what he'd been up to? Because he certainly couldn't tell Professor Stratford that he and Valmont had been using a cache of weapons and gathering students to train in combat.

"I, er, don't think I can make it," Henry said miserably. "I'm, er, feeling ill. I should probably stay away. Wouldn't want you to catch it."

The professor frowned. "As you like. But if you feel better, I really am most curious to know how things are going."

Henry blanched. Did Professor Stratford suspect something? He must, Henry thought as he muttered a flimsy excuse and left the dining hall, taking the corridor that led to the library.

Once he had settled into a seat in the abandoned library stacks, Henry considered confessing everything to Professor Stratford. After all, the professor was a friend. He doubted Professor Stratford would approve, but then, it wasn't as though the professor could reprimand Henry for the battle society. After all, the professor certainly believed that sinister things were happening up north, and had for some time. And he knew about what Henry had seen in the Nordlands, and about the slight but ultimately useless changes to the boys' curriculum.... Perhaps ... No. Henry firmly pushed the thought away and opened his copy of Pugnare, feeling as though he had deeply disappointed Professor Stratford, and hoping that the damage wasn't permanent.

When Henry's vision began to blur from squinting at the pages of Pugnare, he put the book back into his satchel and made his way down to the bas.e.m.e.nt, keen to clear the Latin from his head with some target practice, and maybe to try out his new penny darts.

Henry had taken to the bow and arrow in a way he'd never expected; archery cleared his head somehow and made everything simpler. There was less to concentrate on-just his form and his breathing and the target. It wasn't nearly as exhilarating as fencing, but he preferred it that way. It was easier to imagine an opponent than to see one rushing toward you with a blade poised for attack.

Henry opened the door to the bas.e.m.e.nt and then paused at the top of the landing, listening. Someone was already down there.

"Valmont? Conrad?" he called, as they were the most likely suspects. Everyone else would be off enjoying the freedom of the night after exams.

And then someone yelled out as though in pain. Henry's heart pounded. "Are you all right?" Henry shouted, taking the stairs two at a time.

The bas.e.m.e.nt came into view, and he stopped and stared.

Frankie stood calmly in the center of the room, holding their best broadsword. She made a fairly decent pa.s.s with the weapon and grinned at Henry.

"Oh, help! Help!" she called, throwing in a fake gasp for effect.

"Very funny," Henry said sourly. "What are you doing here?"

"Followed Conrad after supper and waited until he left," she bragged. "I knew you lot were up to something, and now you have to let me join in or I'll tell."

"You're not joining," Henry said, clenching his fists.

"Yes, I am," Frankie insisted. "This isn't a few of my friends having a laugh," Henry retorted. "There are more than thirty of us. Second and third years, even. I'm sorry, but they'll never agree."

"How do you know?" Frankie shot back. "It isn't as though you're in charge."

Henry bit his lip. Frankie stared at Henry in surprise.

"You are in charge."

"Maybe," Henry said coolly. "Maybe Peter Merrill is, or Geoffrey Sutton. That is, if they're even members."

"Oh, is it a secret society now?" Frankie retorted. "How adorable."

"You're just jealous."

"Why would I be jealous?" Frankie shot back. "You're the ones who are going to die in a war."

Henry winced.

Frankie's eyes widened as though she'd immediately regretted saying it, but too late, the words were out there, floating dangerously.

"I'm sorry," she muttered, dropping the broadsword, which clattered noisily onto the stone floor.

"Be careful with that," Henry snapped, retrieving the weapon. "It's an antique."

They regarded each other, Henry standing there holding the sword, Frankie nearly in tears. "What happened?" Frankie managed. "How did things get so ..."

"Complicated?" Henry supplied.

Miserably Frankie nodded. And with tears spilling down her cheeks, she fled.

Henry watched her go. And then he looked down at the sword he was carrying. When it came to weapons, he thought sadly, sometimes words could be just as hurtful, and just as forbidden.

Adam congratulated himself on successfully begging the last of the chocolate biscuits off Liza. He crammed one into his mouth as he left the kitchens.

"Hmmpgluhh!" Adam called, spotting Frankie coming the opposite direction down the main hallway. He'd meant to say h.e.l.lo, but coherent speech is considerably difficult when one's mouth is full.

Frankie didn't say h.e.l.lo back. In fact, she looked horribly upset.

Adam swallowed thickly. "Er, Frankie?"

She glanced up, and Adam could see that she'd been crying. "What?" Frankie asked, giving him a fierce glare.

"Are you all right?"

"No, I am not all right. I loathe being stuck at a boys' school."

"Technically you don't go here," Adam said helpfully. Her expression plainly showed that it had been the wrong thing to say.

"You're right. I don't. And clearly no one wants me around."