After the first bombs fell on London, there was no persuading Mummy. No amount of pleading or demanding or teary-eyed looks would make her change her mind. No matter how much (questionable) maturity was shown or logical arguments presented or angry drawings made on paper scraps had any effect. Simply nothing could convince Mrs. Kirkland not to send her two youngest sons away to the countryside, in hopes they'd be safer than in the London suburbs.

"Iain and Mairead don't have to go!" Arthur argued for the millionth time as Mummy cleared the table to set it for dinner.

"Iain and your sister are too old to be sent away," Mrs. Kirkland told him for the umpteenth time. "And they're helping with the war effort." That was true—Iain was just a couple years too young to join the army as a solider, but was something like an errand boy. Mairead, the eldest at eighteen, worked in the factories as a rivet girl, sending money to her fiancé in Dublin where he was working until he could buy a house and bring her to Ireland.

"It's not fair!" Arthur shouted, stomping his foot. Most often he was a quiet enough child, but he was as hard-headed as a bull and when he felt he was being treated unjustly there was no end he wouldn't go to to prove it.

"Well while you're on the subject of things that aren't fair, take out the trash," Mrs. Kirkland ordered him, sick to death of his constant arguing on this subject. "And then go walk the dog. And stop throwing temper tantrums, you're nearly a teenager. Behave like it." He glared at her, his thick eyebrows knitting together, but eventually stomped off to do as he was told.

"You really shouldn't bother," Daffyd said from where he was weeding the garden when Arthur passed with their Scottish terrier. He'd mowed the lawn with the push mower earlier and the smell of cut grass still hung in the air. "She's not going to change her mind." Daffyd was twelve, two years older than Arthur, and either very keen at listening, or Arthur's shouting had made it through the windows more clearly than he thought.

"Sod off," Arthur muttered, nudging the terrier—Angus—along with his foot.

"Mum'll make you eat soap if she hears you talk like that!" Daffyd called, just loud enough that it might be heard in the kitchen. Arthur through him a look both angry and betrayed and then hurried off to the sound of his name being called in a warning tone from inside.

Warm, late summer heat was stifling in London and he could smell the Thames long before he got close. He liked the city though; he'd lived here his whole life. He knew all the perfect nooks and crannies to go looking for small animals, the best spots to catch frogspawn and watch it hatch into tadpoles, the bookstores with friendly owners who would let him sit inside and read on rainy days. He felt like it was a part of him, not to mention being forced out into the country felt like exile, a public declaration that he and Daffyd were not as mature or adult as their two older siblings and their parents. If there was anything Arthur hated most of all, it was being treated like a child.

When he came home, hands stuffed into his pockets, looking sullenly at the sidewalk, Mairead was home and sitting on the checkered couch with a glass of something alcoholic; he could tell from the smell. He squinted in the direction of the kitchen, clearly displeased.

"Is the protest ongoing then?" she remarked, looking over at him. Her carrot-top hair, usually unruly and cascading down her back, was, with much effort, pinned up in a bun on the back of her head. Arthur thought it looked unnatural; Mairead had never worn her hair up before the war. He eyed her for a moment before replying.

"It is," he said stiffly.

"And how's progress going?" She sipped her beverage, looking subtly amused. Arthur opened his mouth to respond, but he really had nothing to report back. He fumbled for a moment or two and then declared:

"You're making fun of me!"

Mairead chuckled.

"Dear brother, if you want your little temper strike to work, you have to have something to bargain," she explained, drawing one knee up onto the couch and turning to face him more fully. "You have to have something she wants. That's how all strikes work. The bosses want the workers to work, and the workers want more pay or something, so they have a trade. You're just trying to get your way." Arthur looked suspicious for a moment, but that made sense. He slumped.

"But I don't have anything to trade," he said, his brows furrowing as he tried to think.

"Well steal something, then you'll have something," she said, snickering.

"Do NOT be inciting him to more trouble," Mrs. Kirkland called from the table, where she was placing a tray with a great big Shepherd's Pie on it. "He's been quite enough already the past few days."

"I'm just saying, if he's going to have a strike, he ought to do it proper," Mairead said.

"Who's going on strike?" At that moment, Iain walked through the door, removing his cap as he entered. "Not the coal miners again?"

"Arthur's going on strike," Mairead said, nodding to him.

"No one's going on strike!" Mrs. Kirkland exclaimed in exasperation, wiping her hands hard on her apron.

"I should hope not, in these times," grunted Mr. Kirkland as he followed Iain through the door. Following the evacuation at Dunkirk, he'd been sent home, but Mrs. Kirkland could tell he was restless. He often spent most of the day out of the house, not coming home until late, but his wife had asked him to be home for dinner this week, since it was the last Arthur and Daffyd would see of him for a while.

"Looks like the time isn't right for your strike," Mairead informed Arthur. "Better regroup with the union and plan for spring." He worked his mouth for a moment like he was going to say something to her, and then ran upstairs. Angus turned to greet Iain and Mr. Kirkland, who sighed.

"He's still fighting about that?" he asked, going to the kitchen to help himself to his own glass of ale. He raised an eyebrow at Mairead, but her drinking was an argument they'd had before and he never won with her anymore, so he didn't even bother trying. Like Arthur, Mairead was terminally stubborn, but unlike Arthur, she made no effort to follow the rules or convention.

"Oh, I don't blame him," said Mrs. Kirkland in a quieter voice, shaking her head as she continued to set the table. Mairead finished her drink and went to help her mother. "He feels left out."

"For the record, it does feel a bit like we're being banished," Daffyd said, sticking his head through the window in the dining room.

"It's for your own safety," Mrs. Kirkland said seriously. "Hurt feelings are more than worth both of you being alive to be resentful."

"Then what are Iain and I, cannon fodder?" Mairead asked as she laid down some plates.

"That's what older siblings are for, isn't it?" Iain said, grinning wolfishly at them from the kitchen doorway.

"Well, we'll be useful for once in our lives," she remarked thoughtfully.

"Shoo! Everyone out of the kitchen!" Mrs. Kirkland declared, flapping her apron at them. If that didn't work…they all knew how well she could snap a towel against an unfortunate behind. "Mairead, get the glasses, would you?"

They ate dinner and the next day Daffyd and Arthur were sent by train to the English countryside, closer to Scotland than France. Arthur sulked the whole way there and picked at the label that had been put on his coat. It read, in his mother's familiar handwriting, just his name: Arthur J. Kirkland. Across from him, his brother's read "Daffyd W. Kirkland".

"We're labeled like fruit at the market," he grumbled, watching the scenery rush by outside.

"Fruit? You're not a fruit," Daffyd said. "You're a Brussel sprout."

"And you're a git," Arthur replied, making a face before slouching lower in his seat and falling silent. At some other seat, they could hear the sound of a couple other boys arguing. Neither Daffyd nor Arthur felt like going to talk to them though.

When they arrived, they were far from the only children in the station. There was a whole group of them, maybe ten other boys, all crowded up on the platform. Arthur hesitated, but Daffyd nudged him towards the group. The rest of them were labeled too, though some of their labels looked like they'd accidentally been put through the wash.

"Hi there!" one perky little boy said to Arthur, grinning at him. He was missing one front tooth and had a smattering of freckles on his cheeks. His voice seemed to echo off the vaulting ceilings of the train station. "I'm Henry!" He held out his hand and Arthur, out of an obligation of manners, shook it.

"Arthur Kirkland," he replied. Henry turned to Daffyd and repeated the process, thrusting out his hand and enthusiastically introducing himself.

"I'm Daffyd," the older boy responded. "It's a pleasure." Arthur tuned the rest out until he registered the lack of their talking and noticed they were both looking at him.

"What?" he asked, blinking.

"How old are you?" Henry repeated, tugging on his suspenders. It was apparently not the first time he'd asked the question.

"He's ten," Daffyd answered for him. Arthur closed his mouth and nodded to confirm.

"Drat," Henry said with a little frown.

"What's wrong?" Daffyd asked, tilting his head.

"I'm younger than everybody here!" Henry said. "I'm only eight!"

"Boys! Can everyone form a line, please?" called a voice. Arthur stood up on tip-toe to see a thin woman with a straw hat and wire rim glasses directing them. "Nice and orderly now, if you please!" A train whistle blew and a black motor at one of the other platforms began to move off. Arthur got in line in front of Daffyd and they followed the shrew-looking woman out of the station. She loaded the children onto an old bus and then stood at the front of it while the driver started to guide them out of the parking lot.

"My name is Miss Bailey and I will be one of your teachers at Robinson House," she said, speaking loudly and clearly. "Your parents have sent you here to get you away from the war, but that's no reason to let your schooling fall by the wayside. You will still have lessons." There was a collective groan from the assembled boys. "Enough of that now," she said. "Robinson House is owned by the Robinson family and they have graciously opened their doors for refugee children, so it is expected you will treat this house with respect. You are guests here and it is a privilege that Mr. and Mrs. Robinson granted out of their own generosity. The first group of boys is already settled in; when you arrive, you will get a bed and a schedule for classes. Post will be mailed and brought in once a week, if you wish to write letters home. If you have any other questions, feel free to ask."

A hand shot up immediately.

"Yes, you there?" She left a pause for him to fill in his name. The boy got to his feet to pose his question.

"Richard Thompson," he supplied. "Will we have free time?"

"Yes, of course," Ms. Bailey said. "You'll have plenty of time to socialize and amuse yourselves." The boys collectively relaxed. So they weren't being shipped off to some sort of academic military school. Another hand went up.

"Yes?" The small boy rose, keeping his hand in the air.

"Can we—"

"Name, please?" Ms. Bailey prompted him.

"Oh, yes. Ronald Hughes," he said quickly. He had a big gap between his front teeth and spoke with a slight lisp. "May we keep pets, ma'am?" Ms. Bailey frowned.

"Certainly not. This is a children's refuge, not a menagerie." Ronald nodded, sucking his lips in, and sat down. Ms. Bailey, with no more questions took her seat, and when they arrived, Ronald was seen by the side of the bus letting a rather large rat out of his pocket into the dirt.

As the bus trundled up, Arthur took more attentive notice. They'd been bumping along a dirt road for some time now, but the building they pulled up to was no small affair. No wonder they could fit so many children here! It was a fine house, darkly colored and Victorian in style. The grounds appeared massive and a wood began on one side. Daffyd led out a quiet breath.

"Imagine the football we could play out there," he said in a quiet voice to Arthur. Arthur was still trying to be pessimistic, but even he felt a thrill looking around. The only vacations the Kirklands ever went on were to go visit Grandmum in the South and she pinched Arthur's cheeks too hard and her house smelled like old cat. He could play plenty of football out here, or Daffyd's favorite, rugby, or search for fairies in the woods-! Maybe staying here wouldn't be all doom and gloom after all.

Ms. Bailey led them up to the house, past the bushes by the road and through the wrought-iron gates out front. Arthur wasn't sure what the purpose of those were, since the property wasn't fenced in, but they did give it a touch of imposing style. They passed a few other boys already there on their way up the stairs. Ms. Bailey brought them to three make-shift dormitories, featuring ten beds each, five on each side of the room. One was already strewn with personal things, the other held a few sparse belongings.

"Dormitories two and three are available for use," she announced. "Choose an open bed. You will keep your belongings in your trunks or knapsacks under your bed. Coats may go in the closet, one hanger per person. No fighting over beds!"

Arthur tried to make a beeline for a bed by the window, but he was beaten out, so he took the next-closest bed. Daffyd took one by the door. Once Arthur had arranged his meager possessions around the bed and hung up his coat, he was at a bit of a loss. What now?

"Dinner is at six thirty sharp every evening," Ms. Bailey announced when the boys had all settled down. "Breakfast is at seven in the morning and lunch is at twelve. You will have classes from eight until two in the afternoon. The rest of the day is then yours to spend as you wish, provided you do not leave the property. Bedtime is at eight at night and lights out is at nine. After nine, there is to be no one out of bed." Immediately a hand jerked up.

"Yes?" She indicated the boy.

"Dennis Hall," he introduced himself. "What if we have to use the washroom?" There were a couple snickers from the younger boys.

"There's an exception for that," she said. "There's one washroom here on the second floor and two on the bottom floor. If there are no more questions, I will be downstairs planning your English and history lessons for tomorrow." No one else raised a hand, so she departed and left them to amuse themselves. It was only a couple of minutes before a few older boys, around Daffyd's age, appeared in the doorway.

"Anybody wanna play football?" one of them asked with a Cockney accent.

"Yes, I'll play!" one boy exclaimed. Daffyd joined a few others walking over and, satisfied with their new recruits, the boys departed. It wasn't like Arthur wanted to spend time with his brother, but now he really didn't know what to do with himself.

"You wanna go catch frogs?" Henry asked, giving him a perky look. Arthur's flat expression didn't waver in the slightest.

"No, I can't say I do," he replied. He walked out of the dorm, thinking he might as well explore the place he'd be living for God only knew how long.

They had three teachers: Ms. Bailey, who taught history and English, Ms. White, who taught mathematics and led physical exercises, and Ms. Edwards, who taught art. There was also Mr. Martin, an older man, who was the groundskeeper and did odd jobs to keep Robinson House in shape. Every morning at breakfast, Ms. Bailey would read them the updates on the war from the paper, so they all heard a watered-down version of what was happened. Their revulsion at France's surrender pinned the move entirely on "classic French weakness". There was always loud, brash discussion among the boys about how they'd fix everything if they were soldiers. Lots of talk about how they didn't need America's help but how the Americans should still get their lousy arses over here and offer it anyway. And more than a reasonable amount of trash talk about Germany and Italy usually sprinkled in.

Arthur amused himself by slowly devouring the collections of books in the house and exploring the grounds of the house. Once in a while he played football with Daffyd and his new friends, but it was hard to keep up with them and he lost interest in the rowdy boys fairly quickly. His first letter from home came on the second week, addressed to both himself and Daffyd. Somehow, it only made Arthur feel more homesick and when he went to bed that night, thinking about the words Mummy had written on the paper, he had to try very hard not to cry.

Other boys cried. He could hear them sniffling at night. But none of them ever breathed a word about being homesick out loud during the day.

Arthur had more or less settled into life in Robinson House, along with the rest of the boys, when an anomaly struck one morning. As he made his way into the dining room, stocked with two long tables and one at the head for the teachers, he spotted a boy standing by the doors. His hair was golden blond and unusually long and he was looking around the room and watching the boys, his blue eyes full of trepidation. The rest of the boys took their seats as usual.

"I think we should have a big game of hide and seek this afternoon!" Walter Harris was saying as he reached for a biscuit.

"Oh yes, that would be fun!" agreed one of the younger boys.

"Hide and seek is for babies," snorted Benny Clarke.

"Don't be such a spoilsport, Benny," Walter said breezily. "No one asked you to play anyway." There were a few laughs. Ms. Edwards went up to the boy by the door and pointed to one of the tables.

"Go and find yourself a seat," she said. He stared at her and didn't move until she gave him a nudge. Maybe he was stupid, Arthur thought. He wouldn't be the only one here. He went back to his breakfast and didn't worry about it.

He was in math class after breakfast and the teacher introduced him as Francis Bonnefoy, who had come from France. Specifically, the north.

"Don't you mean Germany?" someone whispered and there were giggles. Ms. White pretended not to hear it.

"Why don't you pick a seat?" she said to Francis. He gave her the same blank stare he'd given Ms. Edwards that morning at breakfast. "A seat," she repeated, pointing to an empty desk. "Do you understand?" Francis looked to the desk and back at Ms. White and seemed to get it. He went and sat down.

"Doesn't he speak English?" Billy Evans asked.

"I'm afraid not," Ms. White said.

"Then how is he going to DO anything?" piped up one of the younger boys.

"Leave that for us to worry about," Ms. White, grabbing a piece of chalk and starting to scrawl on the board. "However, you can tell me what five times three is."

Francis spent the class period kicking his feet back and forth and staring out the window. When they got worksheets, he drew pictures on it instead of answering their assigned questions. Arthur scowled and finished up his own work.

Later that day, after class, the boys decided to play hide and seek, a big game of it, inside and out.

"But not into the forest!" Daniel Williams added, much to Arthur's chagrin. "Elsewise we'll be out there all night looking and people are apt to get forgotten." They drew straws and Henry lost, which meant he was stuck counting to a hundred and fifty while the rest of them ran off to hide. Even Francis, who presumably didn't understand a word they were saying, seemed to grasp the point of the game and ran off with everyone else. Or he just wanted to look like he knew what he was doing.

Arthur ran upstairs to the bedrooms, but quickly realized several other boys had already decided to hide under beds. He went to the bathroom, thinking he could stow in the shower or bath, but Anthony King was already in there and hissed at him to get out so he didn't give Anthony away. He tried to weasel under a bench, but then he noticed he'd be seen from a distance as soon as Henry came upstairs. He started to panic, hearing Henry's steady countdown from below and ran to a closet. It had shelves, but he could just barely squeeze himself inside between those and the door. He swore it wasn't ten seconds later the door was wrenched open and light assaulted his eyes.

It was the French boy, who apparently hadn't found a good hiding spot either. He appraised the closet and then tried to fit in with Arthur.

"Hey! This is my spot!" Arthur snapped under his breath, trying to stop him. "Get out, go find your own!"

"Ready or not, here I come!" Henry called cheerfully from downstairs. Francis said something in French to Arthur and pushed a little harder, still trying to fit in the closet.

"No! You have to go find your own spot!" Arthur argued slightly louder. Francis pushed him aside and tried to close the door anyway, but Arthur was still intent on shoving him out. "Get out of my closet!" He gave Francis another push and the boy snapped back in French, clearly annoyed that Arthur wouldn't just let it go. "Don't you use that voice, this is my spot, I found it first!" Arthur exclaimed in righteous outrage. Their squabbling grew louder and more physical until they hit the door just as Henry was opening it and spilled out onto the floor in a tangle of limbs and plain brown shoes.

"Found you!" Henry exclaimed, a bright smile on his plump, freckled face. Arthur momentarily ceased trying to pull Francis' hair and the other boy gave him one last half-hearted shove.

"Now look what you did!" Arthur exclaimed, throwing his hands up.

"I thought the point of the game was to keep quiet, Arthur!" Henry chirped. "Now come on, help me come find everyone else!" Arthur sent a searing glare at Francis and grudgingly got to his feet to follow Henry. Francis sneered and joined them, his arms crossed in irritation. Arthur was still sore about it at dinner, especially when Henry happily told everyone else how he'd found Arthur and Francis so quickly.

"I would've been perfectly well-hidden if that lousy frog hadn't come along and tried to steal my hiding spot!" Arthur objected, waving a fork in Francis' direction. Sensing he was being spoken of in a less than complimentary fashion, Francis curled his lip at Arthur, in an impressively derisive look for one so young. Dennis then brought up possible activities for tomorrow and the topic passed until the bell rang, signaling the end of dinner.

On the subject of the war, there only seemed to be bad news. The situation never improved and even small victories couldn't be celebrated in the wake of such devastation. Germany was establishing a new government in France, and Italy too, took a part of the vanquished country to the south. America still was silent and Eastern Europe seemed to be falling like dominos. There were plenty of nasty things for the boys to say about their supposedly strongest ally, France, who seemed to have deserted them. Whether or not he could understand, Francis could pick out the name of his country from among their angry, impassioned speeches and withdrew more in on himself, picking silently at his dinner. He hardly ate anything, Arthur had noticed. He hadn't been fat when he got here, but now he was nearly as thin as Arthur, even though he was a good several inches taller and broader. Additionally, making friends was difficult when he didn't speak the language, so aside from occasionally making the boys laugh with his exaggerated facial expressions, he was mostly left to himself. That was, until they learned he could play football.

There was a good group of them outside for the usual game, only this time their solitary French member was among those hoping to be chosen for teams. When everyone was divvied up (team captains Benny Clarke and Walter Harris, who were the oldest), Walter groaned because he had both Arthur, who was puny, and Francis, who didn't understand English.

"You." He jabbed a finger at Arthur. "Goalie."

"But—" Arthur wanted to play offense.

"Goalie, Kirkland!" Grumbling, Arthur trumped off and Walter assigned Francis to defense, hoping they could at least keep the ball away from him. He was ordered not to do anything, but let the rest of the team take care of things.

Arthur planted himself in front of their goal line, staring blackly at the field. Since they had no real goals, they had to estimate height and width, but they made do (with a few fist fights here and there). But Arthur hated being goalie; he wanted to be out on the field, doing something! Not sitting here waiting to be the last defense blah blah blah.

A few times, the ball got close to him and Arthur tensed in eager anticipation, but then it would move back away. They finally made a goal on him because he'd been so bored he drifted off into a daydream waiting for something to happen. Flushed with embarrassment, he threw the ball back into the field and did succeed in stopping the next goal, after Walter told him to pay more attention or he'd be on the sidelines next game. As their appointed finish time (one of the boys kept running back inside to check the clock and then dashing back out to tell them the time) approached, they were tied at 3-3. Someone kicked the ball towards Arthur's goal and it was rolling so perfectly, unobstructed, towards Francis, he couldn't help but chase it down.

"I said don't do anything!" Walter howled at him as he sprinted across the field, desperate to get to the ball first. Francis either didn't understand or wasn't listening, because he kept going, drew back, and gave the ball an almighty kick. The boys slowly came to a halt, watching it arc over the field, clearing their heads and soaring lazily past the out stretched fingers of Benny's goalie to bury itself well within the "goal zone". Walter's jaw was practically on the ground. Francis watched them for a reaction and when awed smiles began to show up on his teammates' faces, a smug look settled on his own. Benny was furious of course, because that shouldn't have even been possible but there were still ten minutes left in the game and—

They didn't win.

"That's our little Frenchie!" Walter shouted, slapping Francis on the back when the boy on the porch yelled time at the score 4-3. "Good job Frank!" Cheering rose up from Walter's team, except from Arthur, who'd be damned if he'd cheer for Francis even if that had been an amazingly good shot. He was slightly bitter that all he got to do was goalie, and Walter didn't even think he'd done a good job.

"It doesn't count!" Benny yelled, throwing his hat in the grass. "You can't count that!"

"And why not?" asked Walter, looking just pleased as punch, moving to stand beside Francis.

"Because—because—it was the damn frog!" Benny sputtered, grabbing his cap off the ground and flailing it at Francis. "He's not even one of us!"

"Who bloody cares?" Walter laughed, throwing his hands up. "He was on our team and he made the shot! You're just hacked off because you lost!" Benny flung himself at Walter and there was a brief struggle before they pulled apart and Benny gave up the fight, stomping off to nurse his failure.

The rest of the team strolled off, with Francis an apparent new favorite, while Arthur squinted angrily at the back of his head. Stupid Frenchie. Stealing all the glory. Daffyd found Arthur later, holed up in a corner with a book he found in the house.

"You're not still upset about the football game, are you?" he asked.

"I let in three goals," Arthur muttered.

"It's your short arms, you know, you can't reach…" Arthur looked up with an annoyed expression. He knew Daffyd was teasing, but it was so obnoxious. Brothers were obnoxious. And so were sisters. People were obnoxious. But books were alright.

"Get lost," Arthur sulked, slouching against the wall. Daffyd mussed up Arthur's already messy hair and gave him a noogie. "Ow! Get out of here!" He waved his arms about to knock Daffyd's hand away. The boy laughed quietly and meandered off.

"Don't be late for dinner, Arthur!" Arthur went back to his book and barely remember the advice in time to hear the bell announcing the start of dinner. He raced to the hall and slid into his seat in what he hoped was a subtle, unnoticeable fashion. The football game was, of course, the topic of dinner, much to Arthur and Benny's displeasure. Arthur wasn't sure he was more annoyed that his failures were mentioned at all, or that they were almost entirely glossed over in favor of discussing Francis' shot clearing ¾ths of the field. In either case, he stabbed his potatoes like they had personally wronged him.

After the boys found out that Francis could play football, they paid more attention to him even though he was French. But he wasn't left hanging around the sidelines, being chosen last or not at all for games, and they spoke to him, even though all he could really do was smile blithely back. He could draw funny pictures on classwork, that helped, although the teachers tried to tell him he was wasting paper and pencil lead. It all seemed to be looking up greatly for him.

Arthur, in the meantime, stewed. He knew he was fixating too much on it, but he was so damned annoyed. A couple weeks went by though, and he started to put Francis out of his mind. He poured over the Robinsons' books and explored the forest and tried to stop Henry from disturbing him. One day in the woods, he found a dead butterfly, wings still intact, and carefully scooped it up to take back inside. He put it on the window sill of his dormitory and then went into the washroom to clean his hands.

When he entered, a familiar sniffling sound reached his ears, accompanied by quiet, poorly-muffled weeping. Most of the boys only cried at night though; it was unusual (pathetic) to hear someone during the day. It grew softer when the door shut behind him and he wondered who was in here crying. Letting his curiosity get the better of him, after he'd washed his hands, he nudged the door open with a foot and then let it close. A few moments later, he was rewarded by the stall (constructed for the purpose of allowing the shower and sink to be used while someone was at the toilet) unlocking. And who should walk out, but the seldom-fazed French boy.

Only he looked anything but his usual poised, elegant self. His eyes were red and swollen, his face flushed, and he was rubbing his cheeks to dry them. Quiet hiccups escaped his mouth and he was going to the sink to wash his face when he noticed Arthur. He looked both upset and offended that Arthur had tricked him into thinking the room was empty.

"Why were you crying in there?" Arthur asked, pointing to the stall. Francis muttered something under his breath and tried to push past Arthur. "Hey, wait!" It occurred to him only after that that Francis couldn't really answer the question, but it felt out of place to let Francis just run off after Arthur had caught the cheery boy weeping by himself in the washroom over something.

"Get out of my way!" Francis snapped suddenly. His accent was so thick it took Arthur a moment, but when he realized he could understand what was said, he gaped.

"Hey! Do you speak English? What were you doing in there?" He continued to foil Francis' attempts to get past him. Francis didn't open his mouth again, but they struggled quietly over the door, Arthur, as usual, set on getting whatever he couldn't have, no matter how insignificant (in this case, answers). At some point, it wasn't even about the door anymore, they were just fighting. Francis' foot slipped and Arthur was leaning so much weight on him they both tumbled to the tiled floor.

"Get off me!" he shouted, a high-pitched note to his voice. "Just leave me alone, why are you English always so nosy?" Ms. Edwards heard the commotion and found them squirming on the floor.

"Boys! Stop this at once!" She pulled Arthur off of Francis and got them both to their feet. "What's the meaning of this?"

"Francis speaks English!" Arthur declared at once, pointing an accusing finger at Francis. That, he thought, would be the perfect way to avoid the fact that he'd started the fight. Francis' jaw dropped open and the look of outraged betrayal that he gave Arthur ran deep. Understandably, Ms. Edwards looked surprised too. She turned her attention to Francis.

"Mr. Bonnefoy, is that true?" she asked. He opened his mouth, looking for an excuse, but eventually gave in.

"Yes," he mumbled, not looking at her.

"Well! I can't believe you would carry on such a deceit. I can only blame your delicate state of mind," she said. "You will be started on proper coursework tomorrow and expected to participate like the rest of your classmates. As for you, Mr. Kirkland," she continued, looking back at Arthur, who had, unfortunately, not been forgotten. "No more fighting. Both of you, in fact." She led them out of the bathroom and they were put on dish duty in the kitchen that night. Francis refused to speak a single word to Arthur.

Daffyd came up to Arthur while he was sitting at the end of the table, poking at his food, and punched him in the shoulder.

"Ow! What was that for?" he demanded, jerking his head around to glare up at his brother, quite heatedly for such a small child.

"Don't be getting into fights," Daffyd warned him. "I'm not going to deal with you if you start acting like Iain and Mairead when they were your age."

"As if you remember that," Arthur muttered under his breath. "And it wasn't my fault, ask the frog!" Daffyd didn't buy that for a second and it showed on his face.

"I mean it Arthur. Wrestling kids in the washroom isn't going to do a whole lot for you," he said.

"I told you, he started it!" Arthur continued to argue. "He wouldn't say what he was doing, skulking around in there all weepy like a little girl!"

"Gee, it wouldn't be because his country's been invaded by the Germans and he's been sent away to a foreign land where he doesn't speak the language knowing his family is still in Occupied France or anything, would it?" Daffyd asked in a mocking tone, pretending to think about it.

"He does too speak English!" was Arthur's contribution. But when he thought about what Daffyd said, he felt guilty about fighting with Francis. The boy always seemed so relaxed and sunny, it was hard to imagine he was truly upset. He averted his eyes and Daffyd knew he'd gotten to his brother.

"Try to think about things a little more before getting into fights," Daffyd said. "Take a lesson from our dear big brother and sister—not every fight is worth having." Arthur sighed. Daffyd ground his knuckles into the top of Arthur's head (to the sound of more protests) and strolled off to find a place to sit.