The fog rolled off the Thames and found the college the way it always did — with patience, with insistence, with the quiet certainty of something that knows it will be there whether you welcome it or not.
Arthur Pendelton stood at the iron gates of Ashworth Hall and felt sixteen years old in a way that had nothing to do with age and everything to do with the fact that the boy who had ridden a pony into a stranger's wedding three miles from his Yorkshire home was no longer sure he knew who that boy had been. He was the son of a马夫 — a groom, in the language the college would soon demand he adopt....
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