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water, its noble face staring ahead.
    â€œThere’s a donkey!” shouted Sam.
    And yes, sure enough, a donkey was staring at them, deeply unimpressed by what it saw.
    They were past it in a moment and Sam could contain his excitement no longer. He simply screamed the word “Yes! Yes!” repeatedly—for there, rising up from neatly cropped lawns, was the building from the photograph. The sun was low and softened the ramparts by turning honey-colored stone into gold. The school was a perfect square, half castle, half mansion; it had battlements and a giant set of timber doors above steps, statues, and a courtyard with a dramatic fountain. Four towers, one higher than all the rest, rose from each of the building’s corners. And, emerging like a spear from the delicate cone that surmounted that tallest tower, a flag fluttering in black and gold. True, the central section of the house was little more than black ash—and one tower was collapsing where the walls buckled—but Sam was able to ignore such blemishes. The school would be rebuilt, and he would help. He saw everything through watering eyes: the school crest stretching out proudly in the wind . . . the lion and the lamb on a cloth of gold.
    â€œMy school,” whispered Sam.

Chapter Five
    â€œHeadmaster.”
    â€œYes, Lady Vyner.”
    â€œI think it’s time to be frank.”
    â€œCertainly.”
    â€œI think we’ve wasted enough time. I think it’s time we settled our accounts. The debt, Headmaster—your debts to me—are now running at such an intolerable level—”
    â€œWell, in fairness, Lady Vyner—”
    â€œDon’t interrupt me!” Lady Vyner snarled, and her spectacles flashed. She licked away the spit from her lips and proceeded. “You owe me a hundred thousand pounds, give or take. This debt has been run up through massive mismanagement. You still seem determined to call this crackpot venture ‘your school,’ though nobody else considers it to be one. You sit here waiting for the term to start—look at you. You wear a headmaster’s gown, you carry a register! You should be packing your bags, man! You should be turning any asset you possess into cash. You should be on your bended knee uttering only . . .”
    â€œTell him, Gran!”
    â€œApologies! Cash is what we need. Cash is what we want. And we want it now!”
    â€œBut have you read my development plan, Lady Vyner?”
    Lady Vyner was a thin, wasted-looking woman, with gray skin. She leaned forward now, her bony fists resting clenched on thecoffee table. Lord Caspar, her grandson and heir to the estate, sat on a hard chair beside her. His hands gripped an old flintlock pistol, which he was aiming squarely at the headmaster’s face. The two Vyners shared curiously ratlike features, with disconcertingly large, pale eyes. They were perched with their guest—Dr. Norcross-Webb, headmaster of Ribblestrop—at the top of the south tower, which was the highest of the four. A grubby tea set sat between them, the weak tea filmed with the dust that constantly dropped from the broken ceiling. The room was a musty junkyard of the Vyners’ salvaged antiques, and the sofa and chairs formed a little island in a wild sea of dressers, cabinets, and tables, all of which had been piled high with clutter. There were pots, pans, statues, dismembered suits of armor, and broken-framed paintings. There was a chandelier that had pulled down half the plaster, and there were bundles of clothes even the rats had rejected. Presiding over all of this was the loneliest, shabbiest antique of all: Lady Vyner.
    *
    Unfortunately for all concerned, Lady Vyner still owned Ribblestrop Towers—on paper at least. The noble seat had been home to her family since William the Conqueror stole it from somebody, and she was clinging to it with nicotine-stained fingernails. This room was all she had