Death by Silver Read Online Free PDF Page B

knew it. It was clear in his smirk, in the grins of the other prefects. Even James the Less looked distinctly amused. Very well, there was no avoiding it, and, if so, he might as well get what satisfaction he could from the offense.
    “Aroint thee, worm,” he said, in a voice that carried, clear and firm, and passed the salt decorously down the table. The other boys handed it on scramblingly, as though it might contaminate them by touch, and Ned made a small sound like a groan. James the Less lifted an eyebrow.
    “See me later, Lynes,” Victor said, after a moment, and Julian nodded. Ned kicked him under the table, and he made himself say it.
    “Yes, sir.”
    Canings were administered after supper and before the evening study period, on the theory that the sight of the sufferers would deter further misbehavior. Ned walked with him as far as the stairs and clasped his hand at its foot.
    “I’ll wait for you,” he said.
    “I don’t want you to get in trouble,” Julian answered, because that was what you were supposed to say, but he hung on to Ned’s hand just a little longer, and thought that Ned understood.
    The prefects’ parlor was warm and shabby, the bookshelves crammed higgledy-piggledy with dictionaries and exam books and novels; there was a fire in the grate, and a tea set on the table, and two straight-backed chairs placed back to back in the center of the room. There was a faint smell of tobacco, as though the prefects smoked in there sometimes, even though that was strictly forbidden. They were all there, James the Less and Victor Nevett and Staniforth and Strange and Evelyn, all staring at him as he took off his hat.
    “Well?” James the Less said, and Julian stared back at him. “Who are you here to see?”
    “Mr Nevett. Sir.” The words were bitter in his mouth.
    “He’s all yours, Nevett.” James the Less turned away to pour himself a cup of tea.
    “Julian Lynes,” Victor said. “You are an extraordinarily poor specimen of a New Man and a disgrace to Martyr’s, but that’s not why I propose to beat you. I propose to beat you because you cheeked me at supper. Do you have anything to say for yourself?”
    Julian couldn’t stop himself. “It was the Canon answer. Sir.”
    “It’s still cheek,” Evelyn said.
    “There,” Victor said. “You hear that? It’s still cheek, and six of the best is the remedy.”
    There was nothing to say to that. Julian waited, not knowing what to do, and Staniforth pointed to the chairs. “Kneel on that, take your trousers down, and bend over the back.”
    Julian checked at that, unable to help himself, and Victor lifted an eyebrow.
    “Go on.”
    There wasn’t a choice. Julian did as he was told, reluctantly sliding trousers and drawers down to expose his buttocks, and bent forward, the narrow chair-backs digging into his stomach. He couldn’t see anything in that position except Staniforth’s shoes, and his whole body tightened in shameful fear. He could hear the prefects moving around, a soft mutter of conversation, as though this was nothing – which of course it was, something they did every day.
    The first blow struck home, square across his bared arse, and he yelped in spite of himself. The prefects burst out laughing.
    “A virgin, by God,” Strange said.
    “Nonsense.” That was Staniforth. “Where’d you go to grammar school, Lynes?”
    “I didn’t,” Julian said. “I had a tutor. At home.”
    There was more laughter, laced with contempt, and this time Julian managed not to make a sound when the cane landed. It hurt, it hurt shockingly much, and he squeezed his eyes shut, ducked his head between his arms, and managed to endure the next four strokes without a sound.
    “Right,” James the Less said. “Be off with you.”
    Julian pulled himself upright, eyes watering, dragged his clothes up again.
    “What do you say?” Victor asked.
    Julian had no idea what he meant, looked from him to the other prefects.
    “You have to thank