Max sat perfectly still in the gunner’s turret, clutching Nick and watching the wisps of cloud go racing by. Rummaging through David’s pack, Max felt for the cool metal rings of the armillary sphere. Pulling it out, he placed it on his knee. The lymrill sniffed at it tentatively.
“Do you see this?” he asked quietly. “We came all this way for a bit of metal and wood. A key, says Bram. Not like any key I’ve ever seen. And it’s cost an awful lot, hasn’t it, Nick? Señor Lorca . . . David . . . and now maybe Cooper.”
Nick mewled and nipped his finger.
“We’ll be home soon,” Max whispered, scratching the coppery quills and listening to the hum of the engines. Beneath his feet, the turret’s windows began to mist with cold. His father handed down a blanket, which Max accepted gratefully. Wrapping himself and Nick in the deep green folds, Max lost himself in the drone of the bomber’s engines. The night was black and the stars were bright as they flew west above a sea of clouds.
He awoke to hear Miss Boon puzzling over maps and arguing with Dr. Rasmussen. Bright blue sky and tufts of cloud raced below along with occasional peeks of ocean. Yawning, he clutched the blanket around him and wriggled like an inchworm out of the ball turret and toward the cockpit. Max glanced at his watch and had an alarming thought.
“Don’t we need to refuel?” he called urgently.
“That’s what I thought,” said his father, rinsing his mouth clean into a metal cup. “The good doctor says they’ve modified the engines on all these planes—we could fly to America and back. Not that I want to.”
“How far away are we?” asked Max.
“Close, apparently,” said Mr. McDaniels. “That is, if we can find it. David might have done his work too well.”
Max glanced at his roommate, who was sleeping beneath a mound of blankets and emitting a wheezy whistle as he breathed. Nearby, Mum grumbled and pulled her blanket tight around her ears. Climbing forward, Max stuck his head into the cockpit.
“I’m telling you that we’re too far north,” growled Rasmussen, purple-faced as he waved a map at Miss Boon. The two bickered back and forth over when they’d last glimpsed Cape Cod.
“But it’s right on the ocean,” said Max, reaching for the map. “Can’t we just fly along the coast until we see it?”
“We’ve done that,” snapped Rasmussen. “We managed a lovely glimpse of Kennebunkport, but no Rowan. It’s as though it doesn’t exist! Vanished!”
Max opened his mouth and closed it once again, choosing instead to look out the window where tatters of cloud and mist revealed a jagged coastline below. Max blinked. Rowan was right ahead of them; the copper weathervane on Old Tom was winking in the sunlight.
“But there it is!” blurted Max, stabbing a finger at the cockpit window.
Miss Boon and Dr. Rasmussen ceased arguing for just a moment to gape at the gleaming spire and snow-sprinkled lawns ahead. The black silhouette of the Kestrel looked like a toy anchored to a blue-gray sea. The two adults pressed against the window, speechless for several moments.
“That’s impossible,” breathed Rasmussen, tapping the compass. “We’re at least a hundred miles north of Rowan.”
“Fifty miles south,” muttered Miss Boon, glancing at the map.
Rasmussen grunted and dipped the nose of the bomber toward the ocean, taking a long banking turn that brought them low over the waves and skimming straight toward the sheer cliffs.
“I don’t suppose you have a runway handy?” asked Rasmussen.
Max envisioned the grounds’ manicured lawns, English gardens, and well-tended hedges.
“Dear Lord,” groaned Miss Boon. “Nolan’s going to kill us!”
“Get back and buckle in,” ordered Rasmussen sharply. “This is going to be bumpy.”
Max hurried back into the fuselage and relayed the orders to his father and Mum. Sliding back into the turret, he buckled himself in just as the landing gear began to lower. Up ahead, the Manse tilted wildly as Rasmussen strained to steady the plane. Max held his breath as the nose cleared the cliffs and splashed down onto wet snow.
Immediately, the bomber groaned and began lurching sideways, throwing up a spray of snow and dirt and grass as it screamed across the lawns. People scattered, rushing for the safety of the gray stone buildings. Brakes squealed and muddy snow spattered the turret’s window as the Manse loomed ever closer.
“We’re going to hit it!” yelled Max as the plane wobbled and skidded forward. The marble fountain was a mere fifty yards away. Max shut his eyes and covered his head.
Suddenly, their progress slowed—smoothly, wondrously, as though the intervening air were congealing into gelatin. Forces rippled through the plane, magic so strong that the hair on Max’s neck stood on end. He opened his eyes a peek and saw that they had slowed to a crawl. The fountain’s marble horses fixed him with a blank stare, shooting streams of water that shimmered and billowed in the cool air as the plane ground to a reluctant halt. Ms. Richter stood on the Manse’s steps, eyeing them with quiet curiosity.
13
WHISPERS AT THE WITCHING HOUR
The next morning, a Moomenhoven hurried past Max with a swish of her cow tail and a shy smile. David’s arm had been dressed again in a wrap the color of sea foam. He lay nestled beneath a hand-stitched quilt and square patterns of morning light that peeped through frosted windowpanes. A cozy fire burned in a hearth of polished river stones by which a trio of Moomenhovens sat, plump in white aprons with dishtowels spread across their laps while they mixed ingredients for salves and ointments that were carefully smoothed into jars. Max enjoyed watching them. While the Moomenhovens were mute and seemingly identical, subtle shifts in their features hinted at individual personalities brimming with care, concern, and humor.
Max’s eyes followed the cream-colored walls to gaze at the anonymous lumps farther down the ward. Ms. Richter had said most were relatives of Rowan students; they were just a tiny fraction of the refugees who had arrived at the campus. They had been shepherded to Rowan by overworked Agents and now crammed into every spare room that the Manse, Old Tom, and Maggie had to offer. Rowan had become a beehive of activity.
The ward was quiet, however.The only sounds were the occasional crackle in the hearth and the soft tap-tap-tap as herbs and roots and berries were patiently measured and mortared by the Moomenhovens. A loud, warbling snore joined in. Max reached across David’s feet to nudge his father, who lay sprawled across a chair of worn brown leather. With a rumble, Mr. McDaniels flicked a crumb from his chin and continued to snore in a majestic baritone. Max quietly packed up the checkers board and retrieved a nibbled sandwich that had fallen from his father’s hand to lodge against the armrest. The soft tapping ceased. The Moomenhovens put down their things and swiveled their heads toward the door. A loud, authoritative voice was coming down the hallway.
Bellagrog burst through the double doors followed by Connor, Sarah, and an anxious-looking Mum. In the weeks since Max had last seen her, Bellagrog had ballooned to enormous proportions. The hag swaggered into the room behind a belly that protruded far beyond the jut of her chin. Beetle-bright eyes took in the room at a glance; gray cheeks flushed pink with pleasure as she spied the McDanielses.
“There they are!” she bellowed with a whoop and a wave. Mr. McDaniels awoke with a snort and blinked at the hag, who now advanced upon them with tottering glee. “You don’t call, you don’t write, but ya can’t hide from yer Auntie Mum!” crowed Bellagrog, wrenching Max out of his chair to crush him against her padded hip. “There’s some what said you were goners, but I told ’em all to shut their yappers—my boys would be coming home right soon, and with buried treasure to boot! Bwahahahaha!”
A Moomenhoven planted herself before Bellagrog and put a finger to her lips. The hag scowled.
“What? Making too much noise, am I? Well, pardon a girl for being happy to see the McDaniels boys and little Davie here.” Rolling her eyes, Bellagrog stabbed a finger at a trembling patient who peered out at the co
mmotion from beneath a tented sheet. “Oi! You there! Am I botherin’ ya? Am I interferin’ with yer healin’? Bwahahahaha!”
The patient shook her head vigorously and disappeared beneath her blanket. With a throaty chuckle, the hag rounded on the Moomenhoven and swung a meaty arm about her shoulders. “See? Take a load off, girlie—I got everything under control. You just clippety-clop right back to yer nice cozy chair and let me see my boys.” Her crocodile eye narrowed as she massaged the Moomenhoven’s neck with fat, bandaged fingers. “You lot live on the fourth floor, don’tcha? Past the painting of the skinny milkmaids and the door with the rickety lock what needs fixin’?”
“Bel,” Mum pleaded.
The Moomenhoven glanced at the others and swallowed.
“Thought so,” said Bellagrog, scratching casually at her belly. “You Moomies sure are deep sleepers. . . .”
Horrified, the Moomenhoven hurried away to the protective embrace of her sisters. With a satisfied snort, Bellagrog plopped onto the foot of David’s bed, giving the sleeping boy a passing sniff as she reached out to lovingly squeeze Mr. McDaniels’s foot.
“I tried to stop her,” explained Mum sheepishly.
“Heard you found Cousin Gertrude,” interrupted Bellagrog, abandoning Mr. McDaniels’s foot to peer intently at David’s wrap. “Can’t say I didn’t see it comin’ for ol’ Gertie—didn’t know her noggin from her caboose, that one! Bwahahahaha!”
“We’re . . . eh . . . very sorry about your cousin,” offered Mr. McDaniels.
“Don’t be, love,” said Bellagrog with a dismissive wave. “You ain’t got anything to be sorry about. It’s Bea here who ought to be ashamed. To think, a Shrope within’ spittin’ distance of the man who done it, and she don’t even lift a finger!”
“I tried,” snapped Mum. “There was lots happening—the timing wasn’t right!”
“Well, it’s out of your hands now, ain’t it?” replied Bellagrog coolly.
“You know, we never would have made it without Mum,” volunteered Max.
“That’s true,” said Mr. McDaniels, sitting up. “She sniffed out a vye in Spain.”
“And heard the trucks coming in the Black Forest,” added Max.
“And did some pretty fast talking with the goblins,” said Scott McDaniels.
“Did she now?” asked Bellagrog, eyeing her sister.
“I did!” exclaimed Mum, nodding enthusiastically. She paced excitedly, twiddling her fingers. “You should have seen me, Bel! We were surrounded by ’em—vyes everywhere! Goblins, too! And handsome sailors! And what did I do when they started yammering? Well, I started a-head-buttin’ and lettin’ ’em all know that ol’ Bea meant business!”
While Mum leapt to and fro, pantomiming fictitious exploits, Sarah and Connor pulled up chairs. Connor clapped Max on the back and began peppering the McDanielses with questions.
“Is David going to be okay?”
“Where did you get that plane?”
“What’s happening outside?”
“Is it true you saw Astaroth?”
Max and his father tried their best to answer. Sarah listened eagerly, elbows propped on her knees, but Connor was impatient. The Irish boy was so eager for information that he interrupted them several times in his hurry to clarify points or ask follow-up questions. Sarah flicked him in the ribs.
“Give them a minute to catch their breaths,” she said, giving Max an apologetic shrug. “He’s been like this ever since we got our first-quarter grades,” she explained. “Seems to think he’s the only one capable of solving a problem. Mind your own business, Connor.”
“Well, it’s everyone’s business, isn’t it?” replied Connor indignantly. “For example, I heard you went off looking for something of Elias Bram’s. Is that true?”
“Well, yeah,” said Max, “but at first it was to get away from the witches. I guess there’s a lot you don’t know.”
“See?” said Connor, glaring at Sarah. “Did you get whatever you were looking for?”
“Yeah,” said Max, “I think so.”
“Where is it?” asked Connor.
“We gave it to Ms. Richter—I think the scholars are studying it in the Archives,” said Max.
“Wherever they happen to be,” Connor added with a sour huff and a glare at Max. Connor had been peevish when Max had shared few details of his previous visit with Commander Vilyak.
Bellagrog pricked up an ear and turned from Mum’s caperings. “The secret place with lots of books and blokes with beards?” she asked.
Connor whirled about.
“You’ve been there?” he asked. “You know where it is?”
“Course I do,” replied the hag, picking at her bandaged fingers. “Followed a teacher down, didn’t I? Coulda conked him on the crown and had him in a pot for all he knew! Bwahahahaha! Couldn’t get in proper, but I got a peek all right.”
“Why couldn’t you get in?” asked Connor earnestly.
“Some big ol’ boys stepped right in front o’ me when I tried to slip past,” she said. “Thought they was statues. Scared the daylights out of me—nearly filled up me bloomers!”
“Bel,” hissed Mum, “you shouldn’t be snooping around the campus—the Archives are off-limits.”
“Well, ain’t you a sweet, obedient thing,” teased Bellagrog. “Bea Shrope confined to her cupboard! Don’t go sniffing outside your cupboard, Bea! Dearie me, you might get a scoldin’! Sheesh—I’m surprised you ain’t bottled up like Gertie!”
“Bellagrog, what did you do to your hand?” asked Max, changing the subject.
The hag scowled and thrust forth her bandaged fingers for all to see. “That bloody goose pecked me, she did! Here I am trying to make sure her wee ones don’t go wanderin’ off into the woods and she comes flying in outta nowhere, all feathers and beak. Crazy stinkin’ bird.”
“Ah,” said Max, privately congratulating Hannah.
“Anyway,” said Sarah, “we came up here to see you all and to see if Max wants to go to classes with us.”
“That’s nice of you,” said Mr. McDaniels. “And I think it’s a good idea. Go on, Max—I can stay here with David.”
“Actually, love,” said Bellagrog, cocking an eye at Max’s father, “we need you in the kitchens. Lots of new mouths to feed, you know. Refugees and stragglers showin’ up by the score every hour. Bob sent me to see if you could lend a hand—breakfasts, lunches, and don’t forget the Yuletide feast’s a-coming!”
“Oh,” said Mr. McDaniels. “Well, I don’t know . . .”
“Little Davie ain’t going nowhere,” said Bellagrog, shambling over to hover above David’s peaceful face. Fat fingers pried David’s eyelids open; the hag peered intently at his bright blue irises. “You going anywhere, love? No? Okay, then, be a good boy and stay right here. Bwahahahaha!”
The hag smoothed David’s hair and sniffed him several times, squeezing his cheek with slack-jawed distraction, before suddenly striding off toward the door with the brisk air of a busy foreman.
“See you down in the kitchens, love,” Bellagrog called over her shoulder. “Muffins and marmalade if you’re quick; cinders sweepin’ if ya dawdle!” With an apologetic curtsy to the huddled Moomenhovens, Mum scurried out after her sister.
Max bowed his head beneath a heavy jet of hot water in the third-floor bathroom. Over the sound of the water, he heard Jimmy’s merry singing as the odd little bathroom attendant straightened up and restocked the shelves with toiletries.
Glancing down, Max saw the mark of the Red Branch burned into his wrist like a badge of blood. He dreaded the day he could no longer hide it from his father—or Sarah, for that matter. Ms. Richter had so far said nothing, only regarded him with a look of somber understanding. Images of Señor Lorca and Cooper ran through his mind. Cupping hot water and soap, he scrubbed at his wrist. Faster and faster he scrabbled and scratched and plucked at the mark until his skin was pink and raw. But the mark remained.
Connor was waiting in the hallw
ay when he emerged from his room. Max zipped his coat and shook water out of his black tangles. The nanomail shirt and Cúchulain’s spear were stowed beneath his bed; his hand now cradled a text on Mystics.
“Ready?” asked Connor. “We’ll breeze in a few minutes late—sneak in the back so everyone can’t bug you right away. Cynthia and Lucia have already told everyone to leave you alone.”
“Sounds good.”
“Everything okay? You seem . . . quiet, eh?”
“I’m fine,” said Max, thinking of his mother and the witches’ curse and Bram’s Key. “A lot’s been happening, and I have lots of questions.”
Connor’s face became uncharacteristically thoughtful.
“I heard people asking about Cooper—heard he didn’t come back. Scared me silly, but I was always glad he was on our side, you know?”
Max said nothing and followed Connor down the hallway.
Outside, the morning was bright but muted behind David’s great curtain of mist that rose shimmering above the sea like an earthbound aurora. A sprinkling of snow was on the ground; paths shone black and slick with the marks of many footprints. The plane had been removed, and the piled-up turf had been smoothed down once again. A few tardy students dashed past them, rounding the Manse and making their way through the orchard for the Smithy. Small snowflakes melted on his cheeks while Max paused to watch a group of unfamiliar adults and children stringing holly along the snowbound hedges. A little Chinese girl flapped a red mitten at him as Old Tom chimed nine o’clock. Max smiled and trotted off after Connor, who was hurrying along toward Maggie, tall and gray as she sputtered wisps of chimney smoke.