Lance

Upon being dismissed, Marco left the room. Once outside, he pressed his back up against the closed door. His legs were weak, rubbery, like he'd been running for an hour. He looked up at the frescoed ceiling. It wasn't always easy to seem more confident than he felt or to stand up to people who couldn't wait to see him fail. A few minutes in that room had been enough for him to see Tristan was one of the latter. Marco had already figured him out. The aristocratic world was full of people like him: bigots, old from the day they were born, fretting about rules being respected. They took novelty as a personal offense.

To someone like Tristan, this non-conventional admission to the school—despite his being the second born—and directly into third year, no less, must seem like a threat to the foundations of his existence. Marco was sure the intermediary exam was his idea.

The other professor, Du Lac, was clearly made of different stuff.

He seemed to be in his thirties and looked like someone who enjoyed the pleasures of life, unlike Tristan. As for Angus, finding him here had come as a surprise, but he'd given Marco a very warm welcome and that was good enough.

Somebody cleared their throat and he remembered Dixon was still standing near the lift, along with his suitcase. He went to her.

"I have finished here."

"Yessir," said the woman, without looking him in the face. "Now, if you would follow me, I'll show you to the third-year dorms."

"I do it myself."

"Sir, I was told to escort you."

"There is no need."

"Miss Flannagan said I should insist on carrying your suitcase."

"I can carry my own suitcase," he said with a smile. He sobered again when he realised they were the same words Helena had used.

"As you please, sir, I won't insist."

As the lift descended, Dixon explained how to reach the third-year dorms.

Marco discovered that the castle was built around a central parade ground and the five towers housed the five dormitories. The student lodgings, divided by year, were on the second floor.

He carefully followed Dixon's instructions and, at the end of the ground-floor hallway, came to the third tower lift. After a brief ascent, the doors opened.

A disjointed buzz of voices, laughter and subtle music immediately caught his attention. He stood on the threshold of a large, round room where a dozen cheerful kids chatted and played cards. Nobody seemed to notice him, so he continued looking about the room. Under the elegant but somewhat shabby rugs, he could see portions of a fine inlaid wooden floor. Heavy red brocade drapes covered the windows. The fireplace was decorated with red enamel tiles and the school's imposing coat of arms stood out on the fireplace hood. A sweet smell lingered in the air.

All of the students wore cobalt blue uniforms. Jacket, waistcoat and trousers for the boys; blazer, blouse and tartan skirt for the girls.

A girl with straight, blonde hair came up to him. Her thick, lopsided fringe and heavy makeup made the colour of her eyes uncertain, though they were light. Only one of her knee socks actually came up to her knee, the other stopped halfway up her calf. Her shoestrings were loose and her shirt unbuttoned to reveal a hint of her blue bra. The girl batted her eyelashes, her expression blank, then finally smiled at him.

"You're awfully tall for a newbie."

She was holding an empty beer bottle, which explained a lot. Before Marco could reply, a stocky boy joined them. His black tie was loose over his vest and the sleeves of his blue shirt were rolled up over his elbows, showing off a pair of remarkable biceps.

"Yanka, you're lucky your boobs are bigger than your brain!" He pushed the blonde girl roughly onto a velvet armchair. "Does he look like a fresher to you?" Coolly, he looked Marco over. "Anyway, I didn't get who the hell you are."

"Cinquedraghi. I am Marco Cinquedraghi."

It was as if a spell had taken everyone's voice away. For a moment, the music coming from the stereo was the only sound in the room.

"Yes! Yes! Yes!" The stocky boy brightened and yelled with joy, then pointed to one of the sofas. "You, Pavel, you shit-faced Pole! You're the loser, as always! What did I tell you?! Cinquedraghi! A new third-year! They took him in that other one's place! Gimme two hundred and don't be a cheapskate because—"

" When you say that other, you talk of my brother?" Marco's voice was steady and the boy turned, as though astonished to hear him talk.

"I just meant to say that you're here because he's..."

"Dead?" suggested Marco, every muscle in his body tensing.

The other boy shrugged. "Well, yeah. Dead. I didn't even know him." He spread his beefy arms, "It happened a lifetime ago."

"Three years the next March," Marco pointed out.

"In fact, a lifetime ago. Water under the bridge." He tried to slap him on the shoulder, but Marco pulled away, giving him the darkest look he could manage.

Before things got further out of hand, another boy stepped in between them, one hand held out to Marco.

"I'm Lancaster Chevalier Du Lac," he said in French-accented English, "but you can call me Lance. Everyone does."

Marco gave the stocky kid one last challenging glare and turned to examine the newcomer more closely.

Lance was slightly shorter than Marco and his eyes were hypnotic, a peculiar shade of blue so light they seemed transparent. His hair was infinite tones of blond; some curls were almost white and others almost gold. The soft waves could've belonged to an angel in a Renaissance painting. His honey-coloured skin was perfectly clear and his features so well proportioned that he surely turned heads. His soft, expressive mouth was now poised in a measured smile.

Marco wasn't the sort to be easily impressed by another boy's looks, nor had he ever envied someone else's appearance. Nevertheless, upon seeing Lance Chevalier, he struggled to stifle his awe. The air around the boy seemed to shine. Marco smiled back and shook his hand, receiving a firm and solid grip, which impressed him even more.

"Du Lac?" he echoed. "Relative of the professor?"

"He's my uncle," Lance confirmed. "You must be tired. I'll show you to your room."

"Hey, Lance! Are you going away?" purred Yanka. "And stealing my fresher, too?"

"I'm leaving you in good company," Lance pointed out with a smile and then gestured for Marco to follow him. "You've got a fan," Lance said as they reached the hallway.

Marco cracked a smile. "Maybe she is only drunk."

"Poor Yanka! It's a miracle she made it to second year. She's a lively girl," he said, looking Marco in the eye. "But she isn't very bright."

"It is really that hard?" asked Marco.

Lance nodded and Marco's heart sank. "There are lessons in the morning and afternoon, not to mention training in the gym. The rest of our time is spent studying."

"It seems an impossible thing."

"It isn't. Every year someone graduates."

"If you put it so—"

"You can't put it any other way." Lance looked right at him. "The first thing they teach you at Albion is that losing isn't an option. If you fail your exams, you can't repeat the year. Make a mistake and you're out."

Marco sighed. The pressure was increasing. He mustn't let panic take him.

"Here we are. It's the last one down the hall," said Lance. "I actually knew you were coming," he said with a smile. "It's an advantage of having both my father and my uncle on the Great Council." As he said this, he opened the door, revealing a large room with vaulted ceilings, furnished with two beds, two desks and the same number of wardrobes. A short staircase led up to a second room, which appeared to be furnished like the first.

There was a boy in the room, bent over a desk. He looked ordinary; his black hair stuck to his head with a blunt fringe falling over small, shifty eyes. He greeted them with a suspicious glare.

"Kristoff, this is Marco Cinquedraghi," said Lance, "Marco, Kristoff Shiller."

"A new third-year student," Kristoff commented in a dry cackling voice, "Bastian won the bet. He'll end up ruining Pavel." He laughed, then pointed a pencil at Marco. "What's your father do?"

"He is in politics."

"Mine is in pharmaceuticals," he declared, the word filling his mouth awkwardly. He pointed to Lance. "The Chevaliers are the owners of luxury hotel chains; while Button, Bastian's father, is in the petroleum industry."

Marco was floored and Lance explained, "Kristoff likes to weigh people."

"I collect information," the boy protested, "for the ranking!"

"Which ranking?"

"The room profile!" He seemed surprised at having to explain it. After rummaging through his desk, he pulled out a spreadsheet full of notes and scribbles. "See, until last year, we were second, despite Reynold, that dead weight. The King of Fried Chicken," he scoffed. "Lucky for us, he flunked out and our room became first. Nobody new ever arrives in third year but, now, here you are. I just hope you're richer than Button, otherwise you'll lower our average!" He paused, then added, almost to himself, "Let's hope you're not poorer than the King of Fried Chicken, since that would mean you'd be like a bursy!"

"A what?" Marco asked.

"A bursy!" Kristoff repeated, with a trace of impatience. "Students with a special bursary, sort of like a scholarship. Basically, they're charity cases!"

"There are charity cases?" Marco asked, uncomfortable with such a severe and classist expression.

"They've got the hereditary right to attend, like us," Lance explained, "but they're exempted from paying tuition."

"They're riff-raff, Cinquedraghi," Kristoff croaked. "They're hoping for a full university scholarship afterwards, but they never manage to graduate from Albion. If it were up to me, I'd kick them all out."

"Nobody can," Lance calmly explained. "Albion belongs to them, too. To all the founding families, who all have the right to attend."

Kristoff hissed an objection and grabbed Marco's arm. "If you want to be respected, keep away from the East Wing!"

At that, the door opened and Bastian, the muscular boy who'd made the bet, came in. He smiled at Marco like nothing had happened between them and threw himself on one of the beds. "The bursies are good for something! At least the girls," he crossed his arms behind his head. "Last year, the new ones were cute. And the older ones were very willing."

"The one you were screwing flunked out," Kristoff reminded him, chuckling.

"I got over it."

"Good," Lance said lightly. "You're probably tired, Marco. I'll show you the other room."

"Kristoff and I are entitled to the first one," Bastian clarified, pulling himself up on his elbows on his desk. "Seniority right."

"No problem," said Marco, happy to get away from those two. He joined Lance in the second room.

"Take whichever bed you prefer," Lance offered. "I haven't chosen yet. As I said, I knew you were coming."

Marco gave him a grateful smile. He was glad his roommate wasn't a jerk.

He set his suitcase near the wardrobe, took his coat off and threw it on a chair. Then, he sat down on the edge of the right-hand bed, realising he was more tired than he'd thought.

Lance went over to one of the desks and picked up a clothes bag.

"They've delivered your uniforms." He handed Marco the bag.

Marco unzipped it and glanced briefly at the uniforms. There were four outfits like the ones the other boys were wearing. Each was made up of a cobalt blue jacket and trousers, a light blue shirt, a grey vest and a black tie. On the left side of both the jacket and the vest was a badge with a golden dragon on a blue field.

Lance came up to him and pointed at the school emblem. "In your case, it's very appropriate."

Marco smiled at him and nodded. As he considered yet another version of that golden dragon, for the first time since he'd arrived, he abandoned himself to the hope that there really might be something for him here.