I gave her the Straitley 3-D stare, the one that works so well on boys who overstep the mark in class.

Ms. Buckfast stared back, with a little smile that totally failed to reach her eyes. A rather attractive woman—well built, and with that striking red hair—but I can’t help thinking there’s something far too polished about that exterior, like a Christmas bauble, shiny on the outside, but hollow and easily broken. I wondered just how easily.

I said: “In which case, you’ll know my motto: Verveces tui similes pro ientaculo mihi appositi sunt.”

The smile did not waver for a second.

So, she doesn’t know Latin, I thought. Her eyes were exactly the same shade of green as the paint beneath the Honours Boards from 1913 to 1915, and their expression was just as flat.

“I’m Rebecca Buckfast,” she said. “The Head’s told me all about you.”

“Has he now?”

“Oh yes, he has. He’s one of your biggest fans, you know.”

I grimaced. Somehow I doubted that.

“He says he always expected to hear that you’d been given a senior post. Second Master, Head of Year—maybe even the Headship.”

I had to laugh. “A Headship?” You don’t ask the barnacles on the hull which direction to steer in. Not that there’ll be any barnacles once Johnny Harrington has finished with us.

“I was never Caesar,” I said. “At best, a reluctant Cassius.”

She smiled. Once more, her eyes stayed cold. “In which case, I think our motto should be Victurus te saluto.” And with that she went back to her office, leaving me with two conclusions.

One: Rebecca Buckfast may not be as brittle as I first thought.

Two: She does know Latin, after all.

Chapter 8

8

September 12, 2005

But that was only the start, I fear, of the New Head’s expansion plan. The pigeonholes in the Quiet Room have also been removed, in preparation for the new workstations, which will be delivered sometime during the week. There are rumours of staff assessments, to be carried out throughout the term by various senior colleagues. Even more disturbing, I hear that the boys are being asked to contribute—rating facilities, even staff, with a view to making improvements.

My Brodie Boys make much of this. “Three out of ten for punctuality, sir,” said Sutcliff as I came in late for this morning’s Registration.

“And only five for deportment,” said Allen-Jones, with a grin.

I looked at him over my spectacles. “Aut disce aut discede,” I said. “Which, roughly translated, means, if you don’t have your Latin homework ready for me by lunchtime, I shall be forced to reassess your after-school activities.”