Laird said, his voice strangely grave.
“Oh.” Gwen shrugged, amused by how shocked the boys were over a divorce. “It happens.”
“Does it?” Christopher asked. “My parents said they’d rather die than ever get divorced.”
“I’d rather die than ever get married,” Laird said.
“You and me both,” Christopher said. They shook hands. “But the headmaster should get married.”
“He needs a wife,” Laird agreed. “Someone younger than him so she can keep up with him. I caught him reading Shakespeare’s First Folio in the northwest turret last week. He was correcting it.”
“Younger. Definitely. And pretty. But she has to be smart, too,” Christopher said. “He’d go bonkers unless he had a smart wife. He needs someone to lecture to.”
“Pontificate at even,” Laird said.
“Someone who isn’t us,” Christopher said.
“Boys? Can I ask you a question?” Gwen asked.
“Anything, Miss Ashby.”
“Did you cajole Headmaster Yorke into hiring a new literature teacher because you need a new English literature teacher? Or are you all trying to play matchmaker for the headmaster?”
Christopher looked at Laird. Laird looked at Christopher. They both looked at her. This was becoming a habit of theirs.
“Yes.”
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