Among the Barons

won’t have to worry now. Hey, your parents should be chipping in on Oscar’s wages, too. He’d be saving you guys, too, knocking down walls.”

Smits pretended to swing an imaginary hammer himself.

From the front of the room Mr. Dirk, the teacher, said mildly, “Boys, we’ve always had plans in place for emergency evacuation procedures.”

Everyone turned to stare in amazement at Mr. Dirk. Luke wondered if any of his friends had ever thought to worry about a fire before. The danger outside the walls of Hendricks School had always seemed so great, he was sure no one had ever feared being trapped inside. He felt like standing up and asking everyone, “Does it make you feel any better to have more to be scared of?”

Instead, he slid lower in his seat and kept quiet as Mr.

Dirk started lecturing about ancient history.

The rest of the day went about the same way Smits made a spectacle of himself, Luke’s classmates gaped at Oscar, and Luke could only slump lower and lower in his chair in each successive class. Meals should have been a relief, because Smits didn’t show up for them. At least, not physically. But everyone in the dining hall seemed to be talking about him.

“What do you suppose he’s eating right now?” Joel asked at dinner as thin gruel dribbled from his spoon.

“Roasted wild duck — illegally, I might add — garlic potatoes, French-cut green beans, and chocolate mousse,” They said gloomily “He told me.”

“Maybe he was lying,” Luke said.

“No,” Trey said. “I believe him.”

Luke did, too — about that But he wasn’t going to admit it.

“Hey how much do you think his bodyguard has to eat to keep all those muscles?” John asked. “Did you see him? I couldn’t do a bit of homework at study hour. All I could think about was what would happen if he swung that hammer at me. He was standing right behind me, you know.”

“You never do any homework at study hour anyhow,” Luke said. But nobody seemed to hear him.

By bedtime Luke just wanted the day to be over. But he’d barely fallen asleep before he woke to someone shaking him. It was a thick hand with muscular fingers. He’d never known before that people could have highly developed muscles in their fingers.

“Your brother needs you,” a deep voice whispered. “Come on.”

It was Oscar. Luke stifled a yelp of terror.

“Don’t wake your roommates,” Oscar warned.

Luke wondered if any of them were awake already but pretending to sleep. Seven other boys slept in his room. How many had their eyelids open, just a crack, just enough to watch Luke leave? If Oscar was luring Luke away to hurt him — to kill him, even — how many boys would be able to tell Mr. Hendricks, “Oscar came into our room at midnight to get Luke. It’s Oscar’s fault Oscar’s dangerous”?

Luke told himself Oscar had no reason to want to hurt Luke, let alone kill him. Luke had no reason to fear Oscar.

But he did anyway.

CHAPTER 8

Luke forced himself to slide out of bed. Oscar kept a warning hand on Luke’s shoulder, and it was all Luke could do not to grab They, who slept in the bunk bed above Luke, or Joel, who slept in the bed across from him, and beg, “Come with me! Protect me!” Luke suddenly felt like he needed a bodyguard, too.

But Luke kept silent, as if what mattered most was denying his own fear. Oscar propelled him out the door, into the hallway, and up a set of back stairs. Luke couldn’t help remembering another time he’d been out of his room at night, and terrified. Then, he’d been desperate to thwart the plot of Jason, the Population Police spy who’d pretended to be another third child with a fake I.D. Now — did Oscar have a plot? Did Smits?

Luke reminded himself that, back then, he hadn’t known if he could trust anybody at Hendricks. Now he could trust his friends, if he had to. He could trust Mr. Hendricks. He could run to any of the adults in the school, and even if they were strange, they would do their best to help him.

At the top of the stairs Oscar turned Luke toward a carved wooden door. Before Oscar even opened the door, Luke could hear someone crying behind it. As the door gave way Smits sat up in bed and stared resentfully at Luke.

“I miss.. “ he began. Whatever else he intended to say was lost in a wail of sorrow.

“Home,” Oscar finished for him. “He’s homesick. Acting like a stupid little kid.”

Oscar sank into a chair at the end of the bed. He pushed Luke toward Smits. Smits’s wail turned into keening. As Luke eased down onto the bed beside Smits he suddenly understood what Smits had intended to say. Lee. Smits missed Lee, the real Lee, the real older brother he must have looked up to and admired. And loved. For the first time Luke felt sorry for the younger boy. He couldn’t imagine what it would be like to know that one of his real brothers, Matthew or Mark, was dead. It was bad enough that Luke would probably never see either of them again, but at least he could still think of them back home, playing pranks and baling hay, making fun of each other. Missing Luke. He could imagine their lives going on, even without him.

But Smits — Smits had nothing left of his brother. He was gone.

And Luke had taken his name.

Luke glanced fearfully back at Oscar. How could anyone hear Smits sobbing and think he was merely a foolish, homesick kid? Luke knew what grief was like. He could hear all the pain in Smits’s wordless wails: My brother is dead. I loved him and now he’s gone, and I hurt more than I thought it was possible to hurt . What if Oscar suddenly understood, too?

Smits’s grief was dangerous. Smits’s grief could kill Luke.

Luke reached out and awkwardly patted Smits’s shoulder.

“There, there,” he said. His voice sounded wooden even to his own ears. “You’re okay.”

Smits stiffened. He looked at Luke in bewilderment, as if he’d never seen him before.

“Are you really homesick?” Luke asked. “Or did you just have a bad dream?”

Behind them Oscar turned on the overhead light. The harsh glare hurt Luke’s eyes. Smits blinked rapidly

“I guess I just had a bad dream,” he said. “I–I dreamed you died.”

“Well, I should hope you were crying, then,” Luke said, trying to make his words sound like a joke between brothers, not a warning between strangers. “Go back to acting,” Luke wanted to tell Smits. “Don’t let Oscar know the truth. Don’t you know what’s at risk here?” But he wasn’t sure that Smits did know. He wasn’t sure that Smits cared.

Smits sniffed.

“Can I tell you the dream?” he asked.

Luke stole another quick glance at Oscar, who was now practically reclining in his chair, his eyes half closed. His very posture seemed to say, “Hey, I’m just supposed to guard the kid’s body. Bad dreams aren’t my problem.”

“Sure,” Luke said. “Tell me your dream.”

“Y-you were skiing,” Smits said. He stopped and gulped. He wouldn’t look at Luke. He kept his head down, his eyes trained on his blanket. “You were skiing and you were in danger. You knew you were in danger—”

“What, were you skiing behind me?” Luke asked. ‘Was I scared you’d fall on me?” He was determined to keep this light, to keep Smits from descending back into that mad grief.

Smits flashed Luke a look of sheer fury And Luke understood. Smits wasn’t describing a dream. He was describing what had really happened to Lee. He thought Luke needed to know, and this was the only way Smits could tell him.

“I wasn’t there,” Smits said quietly. Luke wanted to protest, to say Smits was giving away too much now. But dreams sometimes had that kind of logic, that the dreamer could know things that happened far away.

“Did L–I mean, did I know what the danger was?” Luke asked.