"Henry the Eighth had six wives," Alex muttered to himself as he walked down the corridor. "Divorced, beheaded, died... divorced, beheaded, survived."
"Like Arsenal's season," a voice said behind him.
Alex turned. It was Mr. Henderson, his history teacher. He was holding a coffee cup that said I'd Rather Be Reading.
"Morning, sir," Alex said.
"Morning, Finch," Mr. Henderson said. "I saw the game. That cross to Harry Kane... very precise. Almost as precise as your analysis of Anne Boleyn's downfall."
"I hope so, sir."
"You look tired, son," the teacher said kindly. "Take a nap in study hall. I won't tell the principal."
"Thanks, sir," Alex smiled.
He walked into the common room. It was empty, except for one person.
A girl.
She was sitting at a table, surrounded by books. She had curly brown hair and glasses that were slightly too big for her face.
She was reading a book about astrophysics.
