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trouble?
    It didn’t matter. Hethor owed Master Bodean an explanation of today’s absence. He further hoped to beg Bodean’s goodwill for a journey to Boston. He tried not to think about how improbable his own story would sound were someone else to tell it to him.
    Hethor almost went around back to the stableyard, but looking at the horse and the cabriolet out front, he stepped to the front door. The cabriolet’s driver nodded at Hethor and touched his cap. Heartened, Hethor set his hand to the latch and walked into Master Bodean’s showroom.
    Faubus Bodean grabbed the collar of Hethor’s coat, the old corduroy tearing under his fingers as Bodean’s son swung Hethor against the inside of the shop door. Hethor slammed into the wood with a booming rattle of the frame. The impact knocked the wind right out of him. Faubus hitched up the collar, yanking the coat upward until Hethor was forced to stand on his toes, which were wedged painfully downward inside his boots.
    â€œThief,” Faubus hissed, so close his breath was hot on Hethor’s face, scented with a bloom of ale. Then, looking over his shoulder, “Father, the family’s traitor is here.”
    Hethor looked over Faubus’ shoulder at Master Franklin Bodean and Mister Pryce Bodean, father and son, staring back at him. Master Bodean appeared sorrowful, while Pryce’s face danced somewhere between suppressed glee and an attempt at somber pity.
    â€œWell,” said Master Bodean, “and how was school today, lad? You’re a mite late on returning.”
    The question, so ordinary, was eerie in this situation. Hethor gulped, gasping over his tight collar where Faubus still held him high. “I never … went … sir …”
    â€œSo and you’re not lying as well, I see,” Bodean said.
    â€œNot yet,” muttered Faubus, once more glaring into Hethor’s eyes.
    â€œNo … sir … I don’t … lie … .”
    â€œAnd you went over to Yale college, without my permission.”

    â€œYes …”
    â€œTo see my son.”
    Hethor nodded, gasping hard for air now.
    â€œLet’s have it, then.”
    Faubus dropped Hethor hard onto his heels, then slapped him, hard. “You heard Father. Where is it?”
    Hethor rubbed his throat for a moment. “What?”
    â€œThe silver feather you stole from my son,” said Master Bodean.
    â€œWhat!?” Hethor’s face burned yet again, his head hot and full as if he would rupture or have a fit. “That’s my feather, and he knows it!”
    â€œSee?” said Pryce quietly to his father. “I told you he was cracked.”
    â€œAnd where’d you come by the feather?” Master Bodean asked.
    â€œI …” Words failed Hethor for a moment; then he summoned his courage. “The Archangel Gabriel gave it to me, last night. Before the clocks began to chime.”
    Pryce and Faubus both laughed. Master Bodean just looked sad. “And you didn’t think to tell me this wondrous thing?”
    Hethor stared at his boots. “No, I didn’t.”
    â€œI’ll not be believing such a tale, Hethor. I can’t fathom what would move you to rob my son, you being such a good apprentice and all, but angels from the sky handing out jewelry ain’t in it.”
    â€œIt’s not like that!” The tears were on his cheeks now, hot fountains of pride, even as his head filled with peppery snot. “He took it from me, and the librarian made him—”
    Another slap from Faubus silenced Hethor. “Give it up, thief, or I’ll slit your clothes, and you, finding it.”
    â€œShe can tell you,” Hethor protested.
    â€œA woman,” said Pryce, laughing. “ And a clerk? No sensible man would take the word of such a person in a matter of this importance. They must have been in league.”

    Hethor tried once more, staring at Master Bodean.