“He still does not feel the strength in his leg,” said Titus, moving toward the stairs. The otherwise charm he had created before he first stepped into the school was fairly watertight: no one doubted that Fairfax existed.11 All the same, he had better reach the ground floor soon. The boys would not recognize her as Fairfax unless someone said the name aloud; and only Titus could do that. “Who knows whether he will still be any good at sports after an injury like that?”
Wintervale’s other passion, besides returning the barony of Wintervale to its former glory, was cricket. He had convinced himself—and a fair number of other boys—that Archer Fairfax was the veriest cricket prodigy whose return would propel the house team to the school cup.
“Strange. He’s been gone only three months, and already I can’t remember what he looks like,” said Wintervale.
“Lucky you,” said Titus. “Fairfax is one of the most ferociously ugly blokes I have ever met.”
Kashkari chuckled, catching up with Titus on the steps down. “I’ll tell him you said that.”
“Please do.”
Mrs. Dawlish’s house, despite its overwhelming majority of male occupants, had been decorated to suit Mrs. Dawlish’s tastes. The wallpaper in the stairwell was rose-and-ivy. Frames of embroidered daisies and hyacinths hung everywhere.
The stairs led down to the entry hall, with poppy-chintz-covered chairs and green muslin curtains. A vase of orange tulips nodded on the console table beneath an antique mirror—a boy was required to examine himself in the mirror before he left the house, lest his appearance disgrace Mrs. Dawlish.
Titus was two steps above the newel post when Fairfax came into the entry hall, a slim, tall-enough figure in the distinctive tailed jacket of an Eton senior boy. Immediately he was appalled by his abysmal judgment. She did not look like a boy at all. She was much, much too pretty: her eyes, wide-set and long-lashed; her skin, needlessly smooth; her lips, red and full and all but shouting girlishness.
She saw him and smiled in relief. The smile was the worst yet: it brought out deep dimples he had not even suspected she possessed.
Dread engulfed him. Any moment now someone was going to shout, What is a girl doing here? And since everyone knew Fairfax as his closest friend, it would take no time for the agents stationed at Eton to put two and two together and conclude that there was far more than just cross-dressing going on.
“Fairfax,” he heard himself speak—his voice almost did not quiver. “We thought you were never coming back.”
Almost immediately Kashkari said, “My goodness, it is you, Fairfax!”
“Welcome back, Fairfax!” hollered Wintervale.
With the repetition of her name, other boys swarmed out of the woodwork and took up the chorus of “Look, Fairfax is back!”
At the sight of so many boys, her smile disintegrated. She did not say anything, but looked from face to face, her hand tightening upon the handle of the valise. Titus could not breathe. For eight years he had lived in a state of slow-simmering panic. But he had never known real terror until this moment. He had always depended on himself; now everything depended on her.
Come on, Fairfax, he implored under his breath. But he knew it. It was too much. She was going to drop the valise and bolt. All hell would break loose, eight years of work would circle the drain, and his mother would have died for nothing.
She cleared her throat and beamed, a smug, lopsided grin. “It’s good to see all your ugly faces again.”
Her voice. Lurching from one emergency to another, he had paid no mind. Now he truly heard it for the first time: rich, low-pitched, and slightly gravelly.
But it was her grin, rather than her voice, that steadied his heartbeat. There was no mistaking the cockiness of that grin, absolutely the expression of a sixteen-year-old boy who had never known the taste of defeat.
Wintervale bounced down the rest of the steps and shook her hand. “You haven’t changed a bit, Fairfax, as charming as His Highness here. No wonder you two were always thick as thieves.”
Her brow lifted at the way Wintervale addressed Titus. Wintervale knew who Titus was, but to the rest of the school, Titus was a minor Continental prince.
“Do not encourage him, Wintervale,” said Titus. “Fairfax is insufferable enough as it is.”
She looked askance at him. “Takes one to know one.”
Wintervale whistled and slapped her on the arm. “How’s the leg, Fairfax?”
One of Wintervale’s thwacks could snap a young tree. She managed not to topple over. “Good as new.”
“And is your Latin still as terrible as your bowling?”
The boys snickered good-naturedly.
“My Latin is fine. It’s my Greek that’s as ghastly as your love-making,” she retorted. The boys howled, including Titus, who laughed out of sheer shock—and relief.
She was good.
Brilliant, in fact.
CHAPTER 7
AFTER RUNNING THE GAUNTLET OF handshakes, backslaps, and general greet-and-insults, Iolanthe hoped for a moment to breathe. But it was not to be.
“Benton!” Wintervale called. “Take Fairfax’s bag to his room. And make sure you light a good fire there. Fairfax, come with us for tea.”