Mr. Angus

Marco followed the martial Miss Flannagan, herself followed at a close distance by a crestfallen Dixon. The maid walked with her head bowed and looked even shorter than she did before.

The three of them went along an entrance corridor paved with blue-veined white stone. One wall was punctuated at regular intervals by lancet-arched windows, three meters high, set with multi-coloured stained glass. They depicted allegorical figures, but Marco did not stop to look at them. He had other things on his mind.

Continuing down the hall, they came to a large marble staircase, so white it was blinding. As he went up, Marco tried not to look at the whiteness, which was almost painful to the eye. At the top of the staircase, Marco followed the two women into a lift.

The lift itself was unexpected, and Miss Flannagan noted his expression before explaining, "The castle looks ancient but it isn't. It was rebuilt after having been bombed during WWII."

"Who has bombed Switzerland?"

"Not Switzerland," she pointed out. "They bombed the castle. Albion College is, technically, British soil. The reconstruction was true to the original plans. Everything you see was here before. Nothing changes here," she said seriously. "Except for some systems that were modernised and the lifts, of course. You'll find one in each of the five towers."

At that, the lift doors opened and Marco stepped out into a round vestibule with five doors leading off of it.

"We are in the south tower, the keep. We call it the Fifth Tower. Here on the top floor is the headmaster's office," she pointed to the grandest of the five entrances. "He is expecting you. As for us, I'll see you tomorrow morning at twenty to eight in my office."

Marco nodded and took his leave. Setting his suitcase to one side, he took a deep breath and moved towards the large door. Reaching it, he hesitated, shuddering as though a strange awareness had stepped in to warn him of something. He pulled himself together and knocked vigorously.

"Come in!" answered a high, clear voice.

Marco stepped into the room and immediately noted the presence of three men. The first was seated behind a large mahogany desk, while the other two stood on opposite sides of the room resembling figures on an altarpiece.

"Good evening, sirs," Marco said, straightening up to his full height. "I am Marco Cinquedraghi."

The man behind the desk watched him without moving a single facial muscle, inspecting him with large gray eyes, softened but not dimmed by age. Then he smiled and Marco had a revelation: here was the same man Marco had talked to at his grandfather's funeral.

"Pleased to meet you again, Marco," he said. "I hope you remember me."

"Yes, certainly, sir." Marco struggled to hide his surprise. "We have met in February. In Rome."

"I am glad you remember. Marco, I do not believe you know these gentlemen. They are two of your new teachers. Professor Rudolf Tristan teaches Mathematics," he said, and indicated the man on the right. "While Professor Lucien Du Lac," he indicated the man on the left, "has been our Art of Combat teacher for many years." He smiled. "I am sure this discipline will hold many revelations for you."

"Cinquedraghi?" repeated Tristan. "I would've never guessed. He doesn't look at all like his father."

Marco looked at Rudolf Tristan more carefully. He was balding and, regardless of his age—probably in his fifties—he had an old-fashioned air about him. He wore a brown tweed jacket with suede patches on the elbows. Marco remained impassive while the man continued speaking. "Riccardo, instead, was the spitting image of his father."

Marco's stomach turned. Whatever Tristan's intentions might be, he didn't like the direction the conversation was taking. He liked hearing Riccardo mentioned even less.

"Poor boy," Angus joined in, his voice smooth and friendly. "His passing was truly a tragedy."

Marco remained silent. He had nothing to say about his brother.

"But let us get back to business," Angus said, changing the subject. "The Great Council—which, as you know, is called upon to decide on extraordinary matters—has offered you an immense opportunity, deciding to admit you into third year. And, I confess, I championed your case."

The balding man startled slightly, but Angus paid no attention to his reaction. "It was a nearly unanimous decision. I convinced them that exceptions are often the only way to preserve tradition. Something must change occasionally for everything to stay as it is." Angus stood and walked around the desk with the nimbleness and elegance of a cat. "This is not the first time that rules have been changed. It happened at the time of the '1815 Lockout', which limited access to the school to firstborns. And it happened after the Great War, with the 'Entrance', which allowed for the admission of young ladies," he said and smiled. "That change was apparently much appreciated by the students at the time."

Marco forced himself not to smile, too.

"In your case, Mr. Cinquedraghi, the rules were bypassed. You must prove to us that this was worthwhile."

Marco nodded.

"So, do you think you'll be able to?" Tristan questioned him.

"Yes," said Marco, unperturbed.

"Perhaps having no doubts is a bit presumptuous on your part," Tristan suggested.

"What my friend Rudolph means, Mr. Cinquedraghi," Du Lac interjected, revealing a melodious voice and a markedly French accent, "is that you shouldn't underestimate the challenge. You are beginning in third year. Of course, you've already studied History, Latin, Greek and other obligatory subjects at your high school, but English isn't your mother tongue and here the level is fairly high. Furthermore, you've never studied any of the subjects for the Humanities specialisation."

"Humanities?" Marco echoed.

"Yes," Angus confirmed, "as indicated by your father."

Marco stiffened. Tommaso had neither asked his opinion nor, apparently, thought he needed to be informed of this. He tried to suppress his anger and stay focused.

"They are all new subjects for you, therefore, we have decided not to place you ex abrupto into the third-year specialisation courses. For the time being, you will be exempted from afternoon classes," Angus explained. "You will attend private lessons with five tutors, one for each subject."

"Thank you for the opportunity," said Marco.

"Before thanking us," Tristan broke in, "it would be best if you heard the rest."

Marco had a distinct feeling that something unpleasant loomed ahead.

"This is an advanced school," Angus continued. "Advanced systems cannot take latecomers into consideration. Therefore, you must catch up and prove you have done so. For this reason, we have scheduled an ad hoc intermediary exam on December twenty-first, at the end of this term." He smiled as if offering comfort. "Once you have passed this exam in December, you'll be considered an Albion student in all effects and will be able to finish the academic year and write the final exams, which are held—as is customary—on the last day of May."

"Always keep in mind that, here at Albion, we don't allow students to repeat a year, as other institutions do," Du Lac said. "Here, those who fail exams must leave the school."

"Are you still convinced you can do it?" Tristan challenged him, his thin lips shaped into a defiant smile.

"More than ever," Marco confirmed.

"And he's right!" Angus cut in. "One has to be optimistic! Character shows in the most challenging tests and I know he will do his best." He smiled at Marco. "After all, you are a Cinquedraghi."