Sophie walked confidently through the stone archway and turned left up the stairs to the Porters’ Lodge. It was all so beautiful, and so quaint: little pigeonholes full of letters and leaflets, a cork board groaning under the weight of hundreds of fliers; she experienced a thrill of pride. For all that he was spoilt, and young, and impetuous, Tom was also intelligent; he had done this by himself, passed the exams, made the grades, won a place at what remained the greatest university in the world. And, as Tom had pointed out himself, Christ Church was its greatest college.

He was a part of that. It was his own achievement. After a while, surely that native intelligence would out. With what she knew now—how Pierre’s handpicked successor had been running Massot into the ground—things had changed; even Tom would appreciate she’d had to take action.

But by far the most important thing was that she would see him. Business or no business, her son was the love of her life, her joy, her world. At this moment, as her heels clicked gently on the old wooden boards of the lodge, Sophie could not have cared less about House Massot. She was about to knock on his door. See him. Hug him.

“Yes, madam. May I help you?”

“My name is Sophie Massot.” The porter looked at her politely; she saw the name didn’t register. Well, there were hundreds of students at this place. “My son is in the college. Tom Massot. I’ve come to visit him,” she said, proudly. “Could you direct me to his rooms?”

“Massot . . .” He thumbed through a list, glanced at the pigeonholes. “There’s no Tom Massot at this college.”

“What?” Sophie blinked. “Yes, there is. He’s my son,” she repeated.

The porter shrugged. “I’m new here, just started. But his name’s not on the list. No pigeonhole—you can see for yourself.”

Sophie spun around, looked down to the Ms: Macclesfield, Madden, Martindale, Mascot, Masters . . .

There was no Massot. “Impossible,” she said firmly.

“I’ll just call and check. One minute, please.”

Sophie stood there, tapping her foot. Angry. Nervous. Something bad had happened; she knew instinctively she was not going to like it.

The porter replaced the receiver. “Mrs. Massot,” he said, awkwardly. “Your son Tom left the college . . . he took rustication.”

She paled. “They kicked him out?”

“Oh no, it’s voluntary. A one-year leave of absence . . . he can return next year. He left last week.” A pause. “Maybe you could call him?” the man suggested, lamely. He seemed embarrassed, and on her behalf. Sophie drew herself up; she felt dazed.

“Yes, I had better.” She smiled blankly. “Thank you.”