The one thing that gave Achilleus hope was that after his mom died, his dad had been surprisingly good at looking after him. He’d learned to cook, he’d gotten involved with Achilleus’s schoolwork, he’d made sure he always had clean clothes, and he’d taken him regularly to the doctor for his injections. He’d been obsessive about it. His dad had moved to England from Cyprus when he was twelve. He still had stories about the little village he’d come from. Achilleus was sure he exaggerated the backward nature of the place. But his dad loved the British health system. And he had horror stories to tell about all the diseases that had been stamped out by vaccinations.

So Achilleus was pretty sure he was up to date with tetanus. The kids here were organized. They had a well-stocked first-aid center, but they weren’t up to giving injections for things like tetanus.

Rose had given him some antibiotics, though, and had done her best with his ear. He wondered how it would come out. He’d never been particularly vain about his appearance. He knew he wasn’t pinup material. But he still didn’t want to look like a monster. True—a little scarring would increase his status. Looking hard was halfway to winning a fight. Right now, though, he didn’t so much look hard as a mess. His head was wrapped up like a mummy.

Could have been worse. Much worse.

He’d been lucky with John. The guy was thick. Couldn’t see when he was being suckered. But if Achilleus’s trick hadn’t worked, that would have been the end of it. He’d have been wide open to John’s counterattack.

No problem. He’d won. That was all that mattered.

He’d moved to the Music Room at the back of the palace and was sitting looking at the rain as it ran down the windows. He was waiting for his dinner. He was hungry again. Probably from losing so much blood.

He was settled in a big fancy armchair, wearing tracksuit pants and a bathrobe. It hurt too much to put a shirt on over the bandages. Every now and then a palace kid would come through and compliment him. Want to shake his hand, hoping for some of his star status to rub off on them.

He could get used to this.

Paddy the Caddy came in with a cup of tea and a plate of food on a tray.

“You took your time.”

“It’s not my fault,” said Paddy, in his thick Irish accent. “They was busy in the kitchens.”

“I don’t want excuses, PC, I want results. Yeah?”

“Yeah, sorry. Plus I had to look for the other thing for you.”

“Did you find it?”

“Yeah.”

Paddy put the tray down and unslung a pack from his back.

“Open it up.”