Excerpt from Too Bad to Die by Francine Mathews, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

PROLOGUE
MAY 22, 1917

He learned about Mokie the day the new boy arrived.

May was utterly the wrong time of year for new boys, of course. There were only a few weeks left before the Long Vac. Which meant there was probably something very wrong with this one, some reason he'd been shifted to Durnford so late in the term, an infraction so unspeakable he'd been booted out on his nine-year-old arse from the last obscure refuge that had agreed to raise him.

The new boy was bony and slight, a pale-faced number with springy tufts of brown hair all over his knobby skull. He had a sharp chin and wide cheekbones, and this, combined with the tuftiness of his head, suggested a young hawk fresh from its shell. The boy's eyes were hawkish as well, winkingly bright, the color of cold pond water. They studied Ian as he stood, ramrod straight and miserable, before the Head's closed study door.

"Hiya, kid."

Crikey, Ian thought. A Yank.

"Are you up for a beating, too?" The boy slouched over, hands shoved in his pockets. "What does he use? Cane or slipper?"

"Depends."

"On how bad you are?"

Ian nodded warily. He had no time for Yanks who appeared without explanation in late May. His heart was racing as it always did when he faced Tom Pellat's door, awaiting his turn, the methodical swack of a plimsoll on a padded bottom filtering thickly to his ears. TP usually slippered his boys, but he'd been very angry this morning when Ian's Latin grammar was pulled foul and dripping from the privy. Ian hadn't tossed it there, but he knew that if he told who had, his head would be stuffed in the privy next. He was afraid TP would cane him. Canings drew blood. His face would crumple and he would disgrace himself.

The Yank thrust his shoulders against the wall. "I try to get a beating the first day at every school. It helps me size up the Enemy. Figure out what he's made of."

"TP's a good sort, really," Ian said. "He doesn't beat us for fun. It's for the Greater Good of England."

The Yank snorted. "I don't give a darn about that. How often does he do it?"

"Well . . ." Ian shifted uncomfortably. "Three or four times a week. But then, I'm very bad. How many schools have you been to?"

The Yank jingled a few coins in his pocket. "One at home, when I was little. Then two in Switzerland—I had to leave both of those. And then, in Vienna? Gosh—I lost count."

"Vienna? You mean—Austria?"

He grinned. "Good ol' Hapsburg Empire."

"You've moved rather a lot," Ian observed curiously.

"My dad's with the embassy."

"My father's at the Front," Ian said. "He's a major of Hussars."

"What's uhzars?"

Ian scowled. "A cavalry officer. Don't you know anything?"

"Not about England." The Yank stuck out his hand. "I'm Hudson, by the way. What's your name?"

"Fleming." Although mostly he was called Phlegm. With a particularly disgusting gob of spittle attached, when most people said it. He shook Hudson's hand and hoped his own was not too damp.

"Wait a sec—" Hudson stared at him. "You're not the grind? The Fancy-Pants everybody's in love with?"

"That's my brother. Peter. Only he's been sent home. Tonsils. He's eleven."

The Yank whistled through his front teeth. "I don't know how you stand it. I just got here, and all I've heard is 'Fleming says . . .' and 'Fleming thinks . . .' If I had a brother like yours, I'd slug him. Or change my name."

Ian bit his lip. His name was Mokie's name and he wouldn't change it for worlds. "Peter's not so very grand, really. Mamma says he's delicate. He has to have flannels on his chest and drink nasty tonics. He shall probably be Taken, Mamma says, because he's too good to live."

Excerpted from Too Bad to Die by Francine Mathews. Copyright © 2015 by Francine Mathews. Excerpted by permission of Riverhead Books. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.