Pride

Helena was almost convinced time had stopped. The trip was a nightmare and the Italian boy was even more arrogant, unpleasant and full of himself than she'd imagined. She didn't want to meet his gaze again but she could feel his eyes on her to the point that the back of her neck tingled.

"So, you are Helena?" Marco asked suddenly.

She didn't bother answering. There was something wrong in his calling her by name.

"And you are Deacon," he continued after a brief pause she'd hoped would never end.

"Yessir!" Deacon said jovially.

"You are Irish?"

"You've guessed it, sir."

"From an accent like yours, there is no escape," Marco pointed out.

"I have no intention of escapin', sir."

"Maybe you should," he prodded.

"The only place I'd escape to is my home," the boy declared with a smile, "and that's Ireland. As you, sir, have so brilliantly understood."

Marco was flabbergasted. This caricature of a human being kept smiling and telling him he was right. Deacon Emrys really was a loser with no dignity.

"Why not you stay on your island? Or being a driver seems the most for you?" he asked, driven by an impulse to mortify the boy.

Deacon didn't lose his composure. With his habitual obliging tone, he replied, "I rarely work as a driver. I don't even have a driver's licence. Mostly I keep the classrooms tidy, take care of the horses and keep the armoury in order."

"The armoury?" asked Marco, in spite of himself. "What armoury?"

Deacon hesitated and it seemed to Marco that he exchanged a quizzical look with Helena before answering. "The school armoury! As you surely know, Art of Combat is one of the five Mandatories."

"Five Mandatories?" Marco echoed. "What are they?"

Again Deacon glanced at Helena and, despite the half-light, Marco saw her shake her head. This irritated him.

"So? What are they?" he insisted.

"The headmaster will tell you about them," Deacon diplomatically tried to avoid the question. "He's waitin' for you."

Marco stiffened. "I am asking you!"

"Of course, sir," he conceded. Evidently, he didn't want to displease Marco in order to keep his job.

"There are five obligatory courses at Albion College that we call Mandatories. They are: Mathematics, Classical Languages, English, History and Art of Combat."

"That is all?" he asked, his tone loaded with condescension.

"No, not exactly," Deacon explained. "Except for combat, which takes place in the gym, these are the subjects that each class studies during mornin' lessons. Then there are afternoon lessons. Each year is divided accordin' to specialisations: either Sciences or Humanities."

"And who decides?"

"You do, sir, it's your choice," he explained respectfully. "Freshers usually inform the school of their specialisation ahead of time."

"I am not a fresher," Marco said, annoyed.

"No, of course not."

Marco waited a moment, but Deacon appeared to not want to add anything further. He ended up making do with this limited information, even though curiosity gnawed at him.

They drove along a narrow road until the forest thinned and opened into a large garden. Intricate, geometric flowerbeds were laid out against a manicured lawn. Many tidy paths of white gravel wandered around the hedges. The gravel drive, along which the antique car proceeded, was lined by small, wrought-iron lampposts that gave out a milky light. He couldn't see the lake, but it had to lay to the east, beyond the woods. After yet another curve, the view opened up and Marco's eyes were filled with the mighty bulk of the castle.

It was a massive, solemn building with four imposing towers and a keep that loomed above them all. The façade extended along the courtyard. In its centre was a large wooden door, on either side of which were two secondary entrances. Staircases with balustrades of round-based columns led up to all three doors. Atop the end-posts were huge flowerpots overgrown with ivy. As the car drew nearer, Marco could make out the bas-reliefs of two magnificent dragons that seemed to be assaulting the main door, attacking it from either side. Eerie ghostly birds, with their sinister stone wings folded around them, loomed over the side entrances.

"Here we are," Deacon announced. He stopped and turned off the Rolls Royce near a large, dry fountain at the centre of the gravel courtyard. He got out, followed by Helena. Marco waited for his door to be opened.

When he got out, the wind ruffled his hair and the gravel crunching under his shoes felt incredibly alive.

He'd arrived at Albion, the threshold of his future.

Deacon retrieved Marco's suitcase and came up beside him. "This way, please." He turned to Helena and lowered his voice. "Wait for me. I'll finish here and come help you."

"Thanks," answered the girl, "but I can carry my own suitcase."

Marco made an effort not to look at her. He couldn't care less about her and surely didn't want to feel guilty about the driver. He was simply exercising his rights: he was using an attendant to do an attendant's job.

Even though it would've been much less of an effort for him than for the Irishman. He was certain of it when he saw how the boy struggled up the few steps that led to the left-hand entrance. He looked away and contemplated the impressive keep, the sheer height of which was crowned by a huge clock, which at that very moment welcomed him with its gloomy toll.

Before going in, he noticed that the panels of the main door were covered with small tiles of a very dark metal. A coat of arms was emblazoned on the archway above. Marco stopped to study it. It looked a lot like the Cinquedraghi family crest. Written around a golden dragon on a blue field was the motto HONOR ANTE OMNIA. Honour above all.

He tried not to think of his grandfather and mounted the last steps to the door. In the light of the entrance hall, he studied the Irish boy's features once again. His pale complexion was ablaze from his efforts and his blue eyes held an unexpected intelligence. He was so thin he almost looked malnourished. The belt of his old black overcoat passed around his waist twice.

Two women approached them. The first, wearing a severe black high-necked uniform with a spotless white lace apron, bowed as she welcomed Marco to the castle. The other, much taller, had such a long and straight back that she looked like a marble slab. Her posture was as stiff as a stone column. She wore an austere grey suit with a white blouse. Her hair, an indefinable shade of blonde, was pulled back and tied in a bun so tight it pulled her facial features back, as well. A significant nose stood out like a beak over a face that was neither ugly nor pretty.

"Mr. Cinquedraghi, I'm Miss Tamsy Flannagan, the deputy headmaster. I'm to escort you to the headmaster." She levelled a severe stare at the Irish boy. "Emrys, you're dismissed. Please go to the East Wing and don't forget to take note of your duties! The schedule is already posted in the common room."

"I'll not fail to do so, Miss." He bowed to Marco. "Sir," he said, then turned and went out the door.

"Dixon," said Flannagan to the maid, "take Mr. Cinquedraghi's suitcase."

"Certainly!" the small woman replied with a strained smile.

Marco stopped her. This was really too much.

"It is heavy; I do it!" He grabbed the bag before the maid did.

Miss Flannagan looked at him, amazed. "Mr. Cinquedraghi, it is because it's heavy that Dixon should do it."

"Donot talk of it," Marco insisted, displaying a firmness that permitted noobjections. He gestured towards the staircase with his head. "After you,Miss Flannagan."