For Edward,

who gave a little girl the wrong sort of books.

And for Ted,

who encouraged her to write them.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

In a rarely explored hallway of Knightley Academy, beneath decades of dust and generations of cobwebs, there hangs a puzzling little plaque, inscribed with sincerest thanks to the following people:

Ellen Krieger, the editorial quill that could do no wrong; Mark McVeigh, who loved the story even from his exile; Ted Malawer, who asked why the world wasn’t at stake; Kate Angelella, who inherited the project with enthusiasm; Robyn Gertner, a fellow scribbler and writing companion; the girls of Primrose Hill, who put up with an author for a boarder; the East London café society; Mary Bell, for her enthusiasm; Professor William Sharpe, who ignited my Victoriana research; Julia DeVillers, for encouragement; the Philolexians, for encouragement; the Five Awesome YA Fans; and, of course, my family.

And at the bottom, most curiously of all, are the initials VH, which have bewildered historians for the past century.

THE FIVE YEARS’ CURSE

The Midsummer School for Boys sat on top of a steep but rather flat hill, staring down its nose at the village below. You see, the Midsummer School for Boys was a grand place, where sons of Gentry and Quality learned how to stare down their noses at anyone beneath them. They also learned mathematics and science and history and how to steal food from the kitchens and torment the serving staff. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Come to think of it, you probably know all about the Midsummer School for Boys, and are at this moment rolling your eyes and muttering, “Yeah, yeah, nothing new here, get on with the story.” In fact, if I asked, you would most likely tell me that everyone already knows about the Midsummer School for Boys, and what they know are the following three facts:

1. All of the Midsummer students inherit titles more impressive than those of the first edition volumes in their vast school library.

2. All of the Midsummer professors routinely turn down jobs with prestigious universities, preferring instead to keep teaching secondary school algebra and dining at the High Table in Midsummer Hall.

3. The Midsummer School for Boys is probably cursed, since no student for the past five years has gained acceptance to Knightley Academy upon graduation.

But curses, unlike pocket watches and bicycles, are meant to be broken. And what you don’t know about the Midsummer School for Boys is that its curse will break two days after our story starts, in the most scandalous and extraordinary way.

For the past five years, always on the fourth of May, the chief Knightley examiner and his silent assistant have urged their expensive black automobile up the hill from Midsummer proper and through the iron gates of the school. And every May the students have gathered solemnly in their full academic dress, bowed in unison, and returned to their dormitories, each thinking that he will be the one to break the Midsummer Curse.

The year in which our story takes place is no exception. The night before the examiners arrived, Valmont and Harisford, two popular, if somewhat brutish, fourteen-year-old boys, skulked through the darkened corridors of the Midsummer School. They carried with them (along with the fuzzy contents of their bathrobe pockets) half a chocolate cake stolen from the kitchen, and they were discussing the exam.

“What about Hobson?” Harisford demanded, licking some fudge off his index finger.

“Hobson? Riiiight,” Valmont sneered. “He stutters when he’s nervous. ‘Oh, m-m-my lady, allow m-m-me to defend your honor.’ ”

Both boys snickered.

“Leroy, then,” Harisford said, now having licked a small patch of cake completely bare of frosting. “He’s brainy enough.”

“And wants to study physics at some specialized school in France, for God’s sake.”

“So who else is there?” Harisford asked as they turned a corner and passed by the great wooden doors to the library.

“No one.” Valmont shook his head. “Worthington’s an idiot, Porter weighs more than the whole kitchen staff combined, and Crewe’s a coward. Of course I’m not worried, what with all my family connections. So I suppose, if you’re not quite as dim-witted as usual when we sit the exam, it would be down to you and me.”

Actually, it wasn’t down to Harisford or Valmont, who, by the way, knew far more about the origin of the so-called curse and his intended role in breaking it than he professed. No, the most likely candidate was at that moment just ten feet away, on the other side of the library door, feverishly memorizing a stolen textbook.

Henry Grim