“They’ve been making him talk to the Chaplain,” said Ben. “Telling him he isn’t gay, but that he’s reacting inappropriately to undue influence or something. As if you could choose to be gay or not. As if it’s a fad, like Pokémon.”

“Excuse me?” I said.

“Oh, never mind.” The girl Benedicta waved aside my pitiful ignorance and went on: “The point is, sir, that they’re talking as if being gay’s his choice, or even his fault. Like they caught him smoking, or taking drugs. Like it’s a phase. It isn’t fair. You have to stop it, sir.”

I nodded. Yes, of course I must. But it isn’t as simple as she appears to think. Her trust in me is commendable, but I am a single old King on the chessboard, surrounded by Queens and Bishops.

“I’ll do what I can,” I promised her. Then, as a sudden thought crossed my mind: “You’re taking this very much to heart. Is it—I mean—?”

She looked at me with a mixture of annoyance and amusement. It struck me that in ten years’ time, she would make a natural schoolmistress; a trainee Dragon of a caliber to which Miss Smiley and Miss Malone could only ever dream to aspire.

“Well, of course I am,” she said. “Can’t you tell?”

I admitted that I hadn’t had a great deal of exposure.

“Will it make a difference?” she said.

“Not in the least,” I told her. It struck me that, from having lived in (almost) total ignorance of the world of what she and Allen-Jones would undoubtedly term the “sexually diverse,” I was now apparently surrounded by them.

“I’ll do what I can,” I told her.

She looked relieved. “Thank you, sir.”

Of course, she is still young enough to have confidence in her elders. But frankly, I found my heart sinking as I considered what to do. A King, alone, has little power. He relies on the other pieces to act, dictating strategy from afar. But what pieces do I have? Only Winter; a single pawn, who may perhaps one day graduate to something a little more weighty.

I tried Dr. Burke. But the Chaplain was vague, even beyond his usual level of vagueness, speaking of “changing policies” as he misted his orchids while refusing to meet my eye. I suspect the Head has got to him. But what is Harrington trying to do? I do not think for a moment that this is just about Allen-Jones. He is merely one of the pawns. I am the primary target. And though I cannot see the shape of the trap that the Head is preparing, I know it’s just a matter of time before it finally closes on me . . .

Chapter 9

9

October 7, 2005