The Secret Prince (33 page)

There were two long tables where students could study, and uncomfortable-looking chairs pockmarked with graffiti. On the wall across from the study tables was an enormous oil painting of a glowering Chancellor Mors.

“Come on,” Frankie said, pulling Henry over to the card catalogues, past a trolley piled so high with unwanted books that it looked ready to topple. “We need books on the school.”

They looked up the section number, and then squinted at the shelves, searching for the section. When they found it, Henry turned up the nearby gas jet.

“You don’t think anyone will see, do you?” he asked nervously.

Frankie shook her head. “There aren’t any windows.”

She sat down on the floor, her back against a collection of farmer’ almanacs, and began to page through one of the most likely volumes. Henry sat with his back against the opposite shelf, his legs cramped by the narrowness of the aisle.

He’d forgotten how hard it was to sit and read books at the end of a long day’s work. He didn’t know how he’d done it every night back at the Midsummer School.

“I loathe this thing,” Frankie said, taking off her kerchief.
“It makes me feel like a country milkmaid.”

“Those poor cows,” Henry said, picking up the next volume in the stack and flipping to the index. They sat for a few minutes, paging silently through their books.

“Here, I’ve found a map,” Henry said, spreading the volume, a bulky folio, across his knees.

Frankie scooted closer to have a look.

“This is the hidden room where I saw the weapons last term,” Henry said, tracing the corridor with his finger.

“How can you tell?”

Henry quickly explained about the hidden door.

“I just look for a room that has a door pretending to be a wall?” Frankie asked, and Henry nodded.

She scowled at the book on Henry’s lap, her hair falling forward over her shoulder. Henry gulped.

“There,” Frankie said, pointing.

“Hmmm.” Henry frowned at the page. “I think you’re right. Where is that?”

“Looks like it’s near the library, actually,” Frankie said.

“Do you reckon we should take a look now? Or should we wait for Adam?”

“He’ll never forgive us,” Frankie said solemnly.

“No, he won’t,” Henry replied just as seriously.

And before either of them knew what was happening, they were kissing.

Kisses are powerful things, easily underestimated because they can seem so small. And yet, though it may feign innocence, the kiss is a deceptive creature that delights in causing trouble. Such was the kiss that Henry and Frankie shared—small and fleeting, yet deeply trouble some.

The kiss lasted just a moment, and then Henry pulled away. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I shouldn’t have—I didn’t—I mean—”

“You mean what, exactly, Mr. Grim?” Frankie demanded, grinning. “To apologize for kissing me or for waiting so long before you did?”

Henry stared at her in surprise.

“Ugh, you’re insufferable sometimes,” Frankie went on. “Head filled with books and conspiracies, and not even a second thought that there might be a reason it scandalized everyone to see us speak with such familiarity back at school.”

“I was helping you with your French!” Henry retorted.

“I didn’t need the help! I just wanted to hear you recite poetry.” Frankie blushed at the confession.

“Poetry?” Henry asked, baffled. “Whatever for?”

“It was rather dashing,” she admitted. “You were so earnest about it.”

“Well, I wanted you to earn good marks.”

Frankie found this hysterical.

“Of course, I didn’t know at the time that you were planning to run away and join the circus,” Henry continued, “or else I needn’t have bothered.”

“I only left because I thought you hated me,” Frankie said.

“You said you were sick of your chaperone!”

“Oh. Well, yes, but I wouldn’t have tolerated being stuck at a boys’ school nearly so long if I hadn’t met a young knight who didn’t mind if I climbed through his window.” And with this, Frankie kissed him again.

Upon consideration, Henry decided that first years were not, in fact, too young to kiss girls. He rather wished he’d come to this conclusion sooner, as it would have saved him quite a bit of confusion over why Frankie had become so upset when he’d jokingly played the role of a suitor that fateful morning after chapel.

And upon even further consideration, Henry realized that he was going to be in a load of trouble with Adam. But the way Frankie was gazing at him, he felt as though he could take on the chancellor himself…. Or
perhaps that was just because the portrait of Chancellor Mors was watching them with an accusing glare.

In a rather loaded silence they memorized the location of the strange room on the map, replaced the books on the shelves, and tiptoed out of the library.

When they reached the servants’ quarters, Henry hesitated for a moment, uncertain of what he was expected to do. And then, with the faintest hint of a smile, he gave a suitor’s bow, took Frankie’s hand in his, and gently raised it to his lips.

“Good evening, Miss Winter,” he said. “I hope you sleep well.”

“Oh, very funny,” Frankie muttered, but Henry could see that she was blushing.

23

H
enry was nervous that Adam would suspect some-
thing the next morning, but a decent night’s sleep had greatly improved his mood.

“How was it, then?” Adam asked as they removed dirty breakfast plates from the dining hall.

“How was what?”

“Your night with Frankie.”

Henry nearly dropped the stack of dishes before he realized what Adam meant. “Fine,” he mumbled. “We found a map in the library. There’s some sort of hidden chamber on the second-floor corridor.”

“Did you go without me?”

Henry shook his head.

“I have a good feeling about tonight,” Adam pressed on.

Henry sighed. “Listen, Adam, there’s something I should tell you,” he began, and then he stopped, as the room had become oddly silent.

One of the Partisan students, a scholarly-looking boy with the white stripes of senior rank on his uniform stood frowning in the doorway. Henry realized miserably that he was the closest to the door. “Aye, compatriot?” he asked.

“I’m looking for Garen,” the boy said haughtily.

“I can fetch him for ye,” Henry said, carrying the stack of plates into the kitchen as the boy followed. Henry yanked the cord that rang for Garen, and then stood there awkwardly, not knowing the protocol. Should he have led the boy into the kitchen? Was it allowed, or was it some egregious breach of etiquette? If anything, the boy was looking around the kitchen in fascination, taking in the stacks of dirty dishes and the efficient line of girls who were scrubbing them. He watched Henry add his own plates to the girls’ pile.

“Ye look familiar,” the boy said, and Henry stiffened. “Were we in the Morsguard together?”

Henry shook his head.

“No, I think we were,” the boy continued. “What village are you from?”

“Er,” Henry stalled, his heart hammering as he tried to remember the name of a Nordlandic village. And then he recalled the newspaper article he’d read that first afternoon. “Little Septimus.”

“Really?” the boy said. “But yer accent sounds south-westerly.”

Henry blanched, as he’d been unaware that there were regional differences. Well, he thought, he’d need to find a map in the library and memorize the name of a village in the southwest region. “Moved around a lot,” Henry finally answered.

And then he noticed that the boy was playing nervously with a ring he’d absently removed from a trousers pocket. Henry caught a flash of the gold band.

Thankfully, Garen dashed into the kitchen, straightening his waistcoat and trying to look as though he had just been passing by. Garen caught sight of the boy waiting for him and frowned.

“Aye, Compatriot Florian?” Garen asked.

The boy merely gave Garen a significant glance and waited patiently for Henry to take the hint.

“I’ll, er, take my leave if there’s nothin’ else?” Henry asked.

“Henry, isn’t it?” Garen said. “Can ye read?”

Henry nodded cautiously, hoping that wasn’t the wrong answer.

“It would be best if ye took over deliverin’ the post to the teachers’ offices,” Garen said, removing a thin stack of envelopes from his waistcoat. “Names are on the doors. Third floor north. Everyone’s at prayer, so just slide ’em under the doors.”

Henry accepted the envelopes. “Aye, Compatriot Garen,” he said with a curt nod.

As he left the kitchen, he couldn’t help but overhear the boy remark, “A servant from Little Septimus who can read?”

Henry hesitated in the hallway, waiting to hear Garen’s response.

“Ye shouldn’t have come here askin’ after me,” Garen growled, his voice growing louder as the two boys made for the doorway.

Henry dashed down the corridor, not wanting to be caught eavesdropping. He quickly sorted through the small stack of post as he took the stairs to the third floor. He slid the letters beneath the doors to the teachers’ offices,
reading their names and subjects off the plaques. He knew that Partisan’s curriculum was similar to Knightley’s—the two schools had been practically identical before the Nordlandic Revolution.

Henry continued down the corridor, reading the subjects off the plaques in fascination. Music, ethics, languages, law, fencing, drills, history … He was so absorbed in thought that he failed to notice that the last door was wide open.

The plaque read
ERASMUS MORTENSEN: HISTORY, DEPUTY HEAD OF SCHOOL
.

“Is that the post?” a voice called irritably.

Henry jumped guiltily. “Er, aye, Compatriot Erasmus,” he said.

“Well, bring it here.” The history teacher sat behind his desk wearing a somber suit and a deep frown. His scholar’s cap sat upside down on a stack of papers. He was perhaps in his midforties, though the gray streaks through his beard made him seem older. The lights were turned low, and he massaged his temples as though they pained him enormously.

“D’ye need anything fer that headache, sir?” Henry asked, gingerly placing the post on the edge of the desk. The teacher reached for the letters, giving them a cursory
glance before placing them beneath his cap, still unopened.

“It will pass,” Compatriot Erasmus said. And then he glanced at Henry for the first time, and a flicker of surprise passed over his face. “What’s yer name, boy?”

“Henry,” he said nervously.

The teacher continued to stare.

“D’ye need somethin’ else?” Henry asked, edging toward the doorway.

The teacher shook his head, and then winced, raising a hand to his temple. On his hand was a gold ring.

When Henry returned from delivering the letters, Garen set him and Adam to polishing the banisters for the rest of the afternoon.

“Where were you?” Adam asked, giving the polish a dubious sniff.

“Delivering post to the professors,” Henry said. While they polished, he told Adam about the strange conversation between Garen and the student Florian.

“Maybe they’re cousins,” Adam suggested.

Henry hadn’t considered that. It was possible, since the students at Partisan were selected from a sort of student scouts called the Morsguard, but somehow he doubted it.

“They don’t look a thing alike,” Henry protested. “And he was nervous about something. He kept fiddling with this ring, but he didn’t have a mark on his hand from wearing one.” Henry looked both ways down the empty corridor and dropped his voice before explaining what had happened when he’d visited Compatriot Erasmus’s office.

“It was really bizarre,” Henry said. “He acted as though he recognized me. Both of them did. Florian even thought we’d been in the Morsguard together.”

“Either they recognized you from the Inter-School Tournament or else you’ve got a Nordlandic twin,” Adam suggested.

Henry grimaced. And then, on some invisible symbol, the doors to the classrooms opened and students spilled out into the corridor, stowing books in their satchels, talking loudly and joking.

One of the boys, who was bespectacled and a bit portly, nearly tripped over the bottle of polish. “Beg yer pardon,” he called over his shoulder as Henry lunged for the bottle, catching it just in time.