CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER
2
The same rain was falling a few miles north at the King George Academy for Young Men, but Peter, his face being pushed into the mud by a boy much bigger and much stronger than he, paid it no mind. He kicked and flailed as he tried to knock the older boy off his balance, rage giving him a strength he didn’t usually possess. With an arm taut with muscle Peter beat back the hand that was holding him down and sprang to his feet. Before his opponent could react Peter had planted a fist hard in his face, and a bright ribbon of blood gushed from his nose.
The crowd that had been taunting Peter broke into cheers as the older boy stumbled back. Peter stood still, catching his breath and ignoring the shouts, waiting in case another fist should come his way. But a hand came down on his shoulder first: Professor Boldly.
“You’ll be coming with me, Mr. Grant,” he was saying. “The rest of you, be off!”
The ring of boys that had surrounded the fight broke up and scattered. The older boy, Mason, was on his knees now, holding both hands to his nose and whimpering. Peter watched as he looked up to see if Boldly was noticing. He wasn’t, and Mason whimpered all the louder.
“Up to the infirmary with you, Mason,” Boldly said, marching Peter away. His big hand stayed firmly on Peter’s shoulder as they marched back up to the school. The rain had turned the snowy field to mud, and they were both soaked through and covered in splatters by the time they reached the building. This state of affairs did not seem to improve Boldly’s mood.
“Fourth time this term,” he was saying, giving Peter’s shoulder a shake with every step he took. “Never have I seen … never, in all my years of teaching …” His heels clicked on the stone floor as he dragged Peter, who was half shuffling and half running to keep up.
They stopped in front of a closed door. Boldly knocked on it sharply and waited until a low voice murmured, “Enter.”
The door creaked open. A very fat man with a most impressive mustache sat before him, swathed in voluminous black robes. He folded his hands over his stomach and peered over his spectacles at the man and boy in front of him.
“Ah, Mr. Grant,” he breathed. “So we find ourselves here once again.” He nodded a dismissal to Boldly, who gave Peter’s shoulder a final, vicious shake and stalked from the room. The clicking of his heels echoed in the corridor for a long, empty moment.
“And what have you to say for yourself this time?” asked the headmaster once the clicking had faded.
“It was Mason, sir,” said Peter. “He was talking about the archery tournament next week, and he said I was a weakling and I’d lose it for the house, and he supposed my dead mother taught me to shoot.”
“Ah,” said the headmaster. “And you found this sufficient reason to hit him? Not very sportsmanlike, Mr. Grant.”
“He hit me first,” said Peter quickly.
“I think we both know that’s not the case,” the headmaster replied. He sat back in his chair, which gave a long, protesting creak, and removed his spectacles. He rubbed his temple with his thumb and forefinger and gave a tired sigh. “As this is the third—no, fourth, is it?—incident this term, we’ll be alerting the Captain to your conduct. This behavior simply will not be tolerated. Is this understood, Mr. Grant?”
Peter nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“Good.” The headmaster replaced his spectacles on his nose. “Off with you. Perhaps the Captain will beat some sense into you over the holiday.”
Peter scurried out of the office and closed the door behind him. Leaning against the wall outside the headmaster’s office he wiped a hand over his face, trying to scratch away some of the mud that was already drying on his cheek. Mason was a bully and a wretch. He’d get away with murder if he wanted, and all because his father was on the board. Wonderful Mason, perfect Mason would never provoke a fight. And now Peter’s father would know.
Peter took a deep breath, dreading the punishment that he knew was waiting for him at home. In the old days he would have gotten a lecture and that would have been the end of it—in the days before Bertram and Louisa and the Wicked Stepmother. But now it would be worse. Much worse.
Julia heard the shouting as soon as she opened the door. Her shoulders dropped as she heard Peter’s name from the other room—something about bringing disgrace on the family name. Something about sportsmanship and controlling one’s temper. Something about teaching him a lesson. She wanted to drop her bags there and run for her room—run someplace where she couldn’t hear this frightening man who no longer sounded like her father.
Before she could flee the scene, however, there were footsteps on the stairs, and Julia looked up to see a girl about her age coming down, her pinched face twisted into a decidedly self-satisfied smirk as she hummed quietly to herself. Her mouse-brown hair was pulled back into two tight braids, and her beady gray eyes were frozen into a squint. Louisa.
“Look who’s back,” she said, her nasal humming ceasing. “Silly little Julia, the girl nobody ever loved, home in time for Christmas.”
Julia had a profound desire to pull one of Louisa’s stringy braids.
“What’s going on in there?” she asked, nodding toward her father’s study door.
“Oh, didn’t you hear? Peter got in another fight at school. The headmaster sent a letter. Says if it happens again he’ll be expelled.”
There came the sound of a strike, and then a muffled yell. Julia’s face went white as Louisa’s smirk broadened into a grin. “Mother says he’s totally out of control and ought to be sent to a special school for hopeless cases.”
“Indeed.” A tall, angular woman appeared on the stairs, and Julia looked up at the sound of her stepmother’s voice. Her dark hair was pulled back tight from her scalp into a tiny bun, and the harsh lines of her dress only emphasized the severity of her face. Her stepmother’s lips forced themselves into a thin smile. “Welcome home, Julia. Let us hope that you’ve been conducting yourself in a more suitable fashion than your brother.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Good then. Take your things up to your room and change into something”—her nose wrinkled as she regarded Julia’s wilted traveling clothes—“more appropriate for a young lady. Supper in an hour.” She smiled that thin smile again and Julia went up the stairs to her room, trying not to listen to the hushed sobs coming from her father’s study.
“I don’t want you spending much time around either of them, darling,” her stepmother was saying in a tone that was not at all hushed—so loud, in fact, that Julia was sure she was meant to hear. “They’re an appalling influence on you and Bertie. Their mother must have been a dreadful woman.”
There was no supper for Peter that evening, and it wasn’t until after she was sent to bed that Julia was able to sneak into his room to see him. He was sitting up in bed, a book open on his knees. There was a hard, bitter look on his face, but it softened when he saw his sister. She parked herself at the foot of his bed.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Father was horrible.”
Peter shrugged. “I thought it would be different. You know, after Aedyn, after all we went through there—I thought it would be easier to be in school and handle Father and … I just thought it would be different.”
“So did I.”
“We defeated the Jackal, the Leopard, and the Wolf. You’d think I could handle the headmaster.”
“Or at least Bertram and Louisa.” Julia grinned, and at the sight of it Peter gave a low laugh.
“Good old Bertie. We’ll have some fun with him this holiday, eh? Oh …” Peter hopped off the bed and retrieved his schoolbag, which lay still unpacked just inside the door. He opened the satchel and took out a small package wrapped up in brown paper and string. “Here.” He held out the package to Julia. “Got this for you. Merry Christmas.”
Julia took the package from his hand and untied the string carefully. She peeled apart the wrapping to reveal a worn, leather-bound book. Alice in Wonderland. She looked up at Peter in surprise.
“Because you were right, you know. About dreams and other worlds and all that.” And then it was Peter’s turn to be surprised as Julia threw her arms around him.