The Prince

Kingsley swallowed, said nothing and followed Stearns from the dining room.

“I think Father Henry meant for you to tell me what time classes start, that sort of thing.”

“Breakfast is at seven. Chapel is at eight. Classes start at nine. Tomorrow you’ll meet with Father Martin, who will set your class schedule.”

“I suppose Father Martin is a hero, too.”

“Father Martin is an astronomer. He discovered three comets and invented a formula for calculating the expansion of the universe. Retired now. His eyes aren’t strong enough to keep searching the heavens. So now he teaches math and science to us.”

Stearns led them from the dining hall, outside and to the library. The main room was empty but for three boys about Kingsley’s age huddling by the fireplace on the west wall. Stearns picked up an abandoned book off a table, glanced at the spine and headed to a bookcase not far from where the boys sat and talked.

“Stanley Horngren—he’s the one wearing the jacket,” Stearns

said, inclining his regal blond head toward one of the boys. “He has twelve brothers and sisters. He works two jobs every summer in order to pay his own tuition here and not burden his family with the extra expense. James Mitchell, sitting next to him, is here on a full academic scholarship. Rather impressive considering he is completely deaf and never had access to a school for the deaf. When you speak to him, speak clearly and make sure he can see your lips. And speak only in English,” Stearns said, giving Kingsley a dark look. He slipped the book onto a shelf in what was no doubt the correct spot. “The boy on the sofa is Kenneth Stowe. He spent two years in an institution because his teachers thought he was mentally deficient. In reality he has a minor learning disability and a genius IQ. He is now a straight-A student. The library closes at nine. If you need to stay later, you can ask Father Martin for a pass.”

Stearns turned on his heel and headed back outside. He paused outside the door to the church.

“Weekend Mass is at 5:00 p.m. on Saturdays and 10:00 a.m. on Sundays. It’s a traditional Catholic mass. Are you Catholic?”

Kingsley shook his head. “We’re descended from the Huguenots.”

Stearns exhaled through his nose. “Calvinists.” He said the word like a curse before continuing on. “You are encouraged but not required to attend chapel. You will not be asked to cut your long hair. You will be asked to wear the school uniform, but for no reason other than it helps foster an environment of equality. None of us here is better than any of the others. You do understand that, yes?”

Kingsley stared at the floor. “Yes.”

Stearns took them to the dormitory building, stopping outside long enough to gather an armful of logs. Kingsley picked up some firewood as well, thinking they would be carrying it up to their dormitory room on the second floor, but instead Stearns went into the room where the youngest boys slept and piled the wood neatly next to the hearth.

He took the wood out of Kingsley’s arms and added it to the pile.

Several young boys sat on their beds reading. Only one managed to mumble a muted “thank you” as the two of them walked out. Stearns said nothing, only tapped the boy lightly on the forehead in a gesture almost brotherly. All the boys in the room followed Stearns with wide, awe-filled eyes.

Kingsley trailed after Stearns to the top floor of the dormitory, where the oldest boys slept.

“Lights-out is at nine,” his guide continued in his shockingly fluent French. Had Kingsley not known otherwise, he would have assumed Stearns was a native. “If you have homework that keeps you up later, you can work in the common room downstairs. As Father Henry says, ‘Firewood does not grow on trees.’ Please replace any of the wood you use.”

“Bien sûr,” Kingsley said, but knew he wouldn’t have thought to replace the firewood without someone telling him.

“Eighteen of us sleep in this room. Nineteen now that you’re here. Nathan Weitz has night terrors for reasons he hasn’t chosen to share with anyone yet. At least once a week he wakes up screaming. Ignore it. He will go back to sleep in a few minutes. If you see him sleepwalking, follow him. Last winter he wandered outside and nearly developed hypothermia. Joseph Marksbury is in charge of the chore list. I suggest you talk to him before he comes to you, unless you want nothing but bathroom duty for the entire semester. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to get back to my Portuguese.”

“You’re learning Portuguese, too?” Kingsley asked. “How many languages do you speak?”

“Eight.”

“I’m bilingual. What do they call someone like you?”

Stearns arched an eyebrow at him. “Intelligent.”

Kingsley started to laugh, but then realized Stearns hadn’t been joking.

“Eight,” Kingsley repeated. “I would go crazy with so many words in my head. I have enough trouble keeping my French and English separate.”

“A few students here speak a little French, but since Father Pierre died, I’m the only one fluent at the school. If you need to speak French, speak it to me. And as you’ve seen, this place is full of kind and courageous priests and intelligent and hardworking young men, many of whom have had to overcome great obstacles to be here. If you ever feel the need to lie again, tell your lies to me.”

Kingsley blushed and crossed his arms. “I’ll apologize to Matthew.”

“A very good idea, Mr. Boissonneault,” Stearns said.