Part 16 (2/2)
”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 rus.h.i.+ng 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.”
<script>