Free Brightly Burning by Mercedes Lackey

but reading was better than doing nothing.
    â€œWell, if this is the effect of your little fever, Lavan, I could wish that the entire class would catch it,” one of the teachers said dryly. As a nervous chuckle ghosted up from another part of the room, the teacher glared in that direction and added, “Perhaps some of you might consider following your classmate’s example and actually study when you are at home.”
    But as the lunch hour neared, Lan felt more and more nervous. The Sixth Formers had surely noticed that he’d been gone—had someone told them why? What had they been planning for him? How could he possibly anticipate what Tyron would demand?
    He might not demand anything. He might actually feel sorry for me. I have been sick. He might be afraid he’ll catch whatever I have. Or maybe the Schoolmaster told him to leave me alone until they know I’m well. . . .
    There was nothing for it. When the bell rang for lunch, he left with the rest, and did his best to slip in unobtrusively. He avoided Froggy’s company as if she had plague, but so did everyone else. The girl sat all by herself with a ring of empty seats around her, her bright green face hidden by her hair as she kept her head bowed.
    Lan could only feel relief that it was Froggy sitting there alone, and not him.
    He embedded himself in a group of Fifth and Fourth Formers and ate quietly, with one ear on the Sixth Form table. I’m not here, he thought fiercely at them. Don’t even think of me. I don’t exist.
    He tried to eat at the same rate as the others, though tension made it difficult to swallow. He wanted to leave when they did, in the crowd, to put off the moment when Tyron noticed he was back as long as possible.
    But sudden silence at his end of the table, the stares of those across from him, and a heavy hand on his shoulder told him that all his subterfuge was in vain.
    â€œCome along, Scrub,” said Loman, clamping his hand on Lan’s shoulder hard enough to bruise, and lifting him up out of his seat. “Tyron wants a word with you.”
    The Sixth Former shoved him roughly up the aisle between the tables, until they arrived at Tyron’s seat. Tyron had turned his chair about and was waiting, watching them down his nose, for all the world like he thought he was the King himself on his throne. Then again—here, he might just as well have been.
    Lan stumbled to a halt, managing not to fall when Loman gave him a final push. “So, Scrub, you’ve been gone a while,” Tyron said, with a glittering, false smile.
    â€œI’ve been sick . . . sir.” It was hard to choke out the last word, but he did, anger smoldering, but not yet burning. He dropped his eyes to the wooden floor, determined not to let Tyron see anything in his face that he could use.
    â€œSo I’ve been told. And do you know, I don’t believe it. I think you’re lying, Scrub. I think you’re a slacker, and a liar.”
    Lan gritted his teeth and said nothing.
    Tyron raised his voice so that the whole room could hear—easy enough, now that every other voice had been silenced. “I think you were feigning. You just wanted to slack off, wanted a little holiday for yourself. You might have fooled your mummy, but you can’t fool me. Now what have you got to say for yourself?”
    â€œNo one fools my mother, least of all me . . . sir. Especially not when it costs her money for the services of the herbalist.” He managed not to throw Tyron’s accusation back in his teeth, and to keep his tone level, though every muscle in his body strained. And—thank the gods!—Tyron laughed at that. “And when I wasn’t drinking the herbalist’s wretched medicines, she saw to it I got no holiday from books.”
    â€œOwly!” Tyron called. “Is that true?”
    â€œHe’s ahead of the rest of us, sir,” Owly replied sullenly.
    Tyron laughed again.