Max glanced back at the cauldron. The damage might be done, but he did not have to sit by and permit the hags to consummate the feast. Stretching forth his hand, Max focused on the fire and began to absorb its crackling energy into his body. The singing, capering hags seemed at first oblivious as the cooking fire died away, its bright flames retreating into the stacked firewood. When naught but a thin smoke trickled forth, Bellagrog ceased her singing.
“Oi!” she cried. “Ain’t you listening, wee ones? I said ‘stoke that fire, heat that pot!’ This here pot’s gone cold as Nan’s headstone! Get some kindling and warm ’im up again!”
While Max debated how best to handle the situation, the haglings set about gathering more kindling from a neat stack by the cabin. Another poked a stick into a lantern until it smoked and caught fire. Meanwhile, Mum turned her attention to the stew’s other fare, expertly peeling more carrots and potatoes. With a deft flick of her wrist, she tossed them over her shoulder.
The resulting splash was expected—what followed was not.
One of the potatoes flew back out of the cauldron.
It was a sorry, wobbling flight, and Bellagrog watched the spud come to a rolling stop on the packed earth. The potato was not alone, however. More vegetables shot out of the cauldron—carrots, onions, and an entire bulb of garlic—as though the stew had initiated a full-scale revolt. Grinning, Bellagrog hefted an enormous ladle in her meaty hand and tested its weight. Waddling over to the pot, she peered inside.
“Bwahahahaha!” she cackled. “Come have a look, Bea! Doc’s still kickin’, he is. Ooh, but he’s a feisty one! Well, I can be feisty, too!”
Max was horrified. Bellagrog managed to land three clanging blows upon the still-alive-and-struggling engineer before Max seized her wrist. Shocked, the hag merely gaped at him as Max pried the ladle out of her grip and flung it away.
“So help me, Bel,” muttered Max, moving Bellagrog aside and peering into the cauldron.
Stuffed inside was Dr. Rasmussen, bound and gagged and up to his nose in chicken broth. The man looked nearly insane with panic. Peering up at Max, he tried to scream but managed only a stream of bubbles that sent carrot slices bobbing away.
“Take it easy, love,” cooed Bellagrog behind him. “Ain’t nothin’ happenin’ here but Shrope family business.…”
“Bellagrog, put down that cleaver before I get really angry,” Max growled, catching sight of the hag’s sinister shadow. The bloated hag cursed and hung the tool back on her belt.
“Max, don’t be angry,” pleaded Mum.
“Angry?” thundered Max, wheeling on her. “You’re cooking him alive!”
“Well, he’s very stringy,” Mum explained. “We needed to let him soak on a low simmer for two hours before—”
Max waved off her explanation and turned to their half-cooked, frantic prisoner, whose skin gleamed as red as a boiled lobster. The man screamed bloody murder as Max reached in and lifted him out of the broth.
“I’m sorry,” Max whispered. “I know it hurts.… Just maybe try not to shriek so much.”
It was no use. Even when cooling, Rasmussen was as pink, naked, and inconsolable as a newborn. Once his gag had been removed, he howled while Max set him gently on the ground and carefully removed his bindings. Even the slightest touch triggered a wince and a wail.
“I—I want them all arrested!” Rasmussen chattered, clinging to Max while wisps of steam rose off his body. “The little ones, too—they’re the worst of all!”
“Shhh,” said Max, trying to gently pry the man’s arms away.
“They ambushed me!” sobbed Rasmussen. “Just before the meeting …”
“Shhh,” Max whispered, easing him to his feet. “Let’s get you back to the Manse. Easy does it. One step at a time. There you go.”
“You’re interferin’ with Shrope family business!” thundered Bellagrog, her gray face flushed dark with fury. “Don’t make me put ya on the list, Max!”
“Forget ‘Shrope family business,’ and stuff your list,” muttered Max. “You’ll be lucky if you’re not marched to the front gates when the Director gets wind of this.”
“Bel made me do it,” simpered Mum, clasping her hands behind her back.
“Shut yer mouth, Bea,” growled Bellagrog, gathering her haglings about her. The squat, ferocious things said nothing but clung to their mother’s starchy skirt and glared at Max as he helped Dr. Rasmussen waddle away from the cauldron. As Max led the engineer back down the coast, Bellagrog’s voice—almost incoherent with choked rage—rent the night air.
“This ain’t over, Rasmussen! The Shropes never forget!”
The horror-stricken engineer let out a wail and waddled faster.
They had almost reached the Manse before Rasmussen realized he was naked.
By the time Max left his scalded, self-conscious patient in the moomenhovens’ care, it was nearly dawn. He was exhausted but still far too charged for sleep. Instead, he ambled about the quiet Manse, flitting like a shadow through sprawling rooms and intimate parlors. Occasionally he passed a domovoi or a fellow insomniac, but the huge, rambling house was largely still. The Manse had not yet awakened to the new chapter of its existence. Directly across from the Manse, separated by several hundred yards of grass and garden, was Gràvenmuir.
Walking outside, Max gazed at it from the Manse steps. The building perched against the cliff’s edge like a great black vulture. It was a dark, Gothic structure whose pinnacles and steep roofs swept up toward the sky like a many-pointed crown of iron. Its stone was weathered, and its spires were twined with black ivy as though it had stood upon the wind-whipped coast for centuries. Rowan’s buildings—gleaming and newly built—appeared the newcomers. While Gràvenmuir’s exterior was dark, its windows were alight and the interior gleamed like molten gold against the gray dawn. The building’s front doors stood wide, spilling light onto the dark lawn. By all appearances, the demons’ embassy was open for business.
Max turned on his heel and closed the Manse’s heavy doors behind him.
Climbing the winding stairs, he continued to traverse many long hallways until he approached the Bacon Library. Its door was open, and from within he heard frantic scratching sounds, as though Rowan’s entire student body were madly scribbling to finish a final exam. Peering inside, Max saw a most curious sight.
Suspended in midair above the tables were hundreds of slender black quills. Before each quill was a stack of parchment, an ink bottle, and an open book whose pages turned on their own. Guided by invisible hands, the quills copied away like overcaffeinated scriveners. Upon one of the tables, two Highland hares were engaged in quiet conversation next to a flickering candle stub.
“I don’t see why we need to stay, Dalrymple,” moaned a young tawny specimen with tufty ears. “The quills work just fine on their own.”
“They need someone to give ’em fresh ink now and again,” replied his long-whiskered elder. “Anyway, Tweedy said that Mr. Menlo wants us to supervise ’em so he can be told straightaway if there’s any problems.”
“He’s just a student, for all love,” yawned the sleepy hare. “Since when do students give the orders at Rowan?”
“Student or not, Hamish, that boy might just have saved us from another Dark Age. I’ll sleep once I know the classics have been copied fair. Be still now.…”
Max glanced once more at the scribbling quills and backed quietly out of the library. The mention of David rekindled his curiosity. Where had David been throughout the evening? Prusias might have been less haughty and the médim less humiliating if Rowan’s greatest Sorcerer had bothered to show.
Stealing down the hallway, Max hurried to his dormitory wing. Unlocking the observatory, Max entered his room and saw that two letters had been slipped beneath the door. The first note was a plain scrap of paper that had been folded in half.
MAX, COME FIND ME FIRST THING IN THE MORNING. LOTS TO TALK ABOUT. DIRECTOR WANTS TO SEE YOU BEFORE SUPPER.
—COOPE
R
P.S. I’M FINE. DON’T LOSE SLEEP OVER IT.
Max exhaled with relief and turned to the second letter, whose peach stationery and graceful script were very familiar.
Well, I waited up as long as I could but finally gave up. Where are you?!? Everyone’s been guessing and gossiping nonstop about the demons, and I was hoping someone would fill us all in before we were herded through the back door of the Manse. No one will let us go out on the quad. Honestly, the place is under lockdown! Anyway, the aforementioned certain someone is now in unspeakable trouble and owes another certain someone a dance.
Just teasing. I think you’re very cute and neat and hope that we can spend some time together tomorrow. Lunch in the Sanctuary? Sweet dreams!
—Julie
Max grinned and tucked the note back in its envelope. Closing the door behind him, it seemed that the room’s glass-domed sky and faint constellations triggered the weariness within him. Yawning, he glanced at David’s bed, but its curtains were closed and he did not hear his roommate’s peculiar, whistling snore. Despite his recent anger at David, Max dearly wished he were present. David had such a logical way of looking at things and could always unravel Max’s mental knots with a few penetrating questions. Gazing up at the wheeling stars and then around the room’s many nooks, Max wondered where David’s secret door was hidden.
Max knew it would not be visible—no twinkling veil to the outside. But he might feel it—after all, Mystics left traces, and he could sometimes perceive magic like a faded stain. He strolled to David’s side of the room.
When he came to the moon-stitched curtains that hid his roommate’s bed, he paused, guilt plucking at his conscience. David was an intensely private person, and Max was painfully aware that his trespass was a gross violation of privacy. He tried to see things from David’s perspective. Despite Max’s great and growing abilities, it was David Menlo who bore the world’s hopes upon narrow shoulders and a borrowed heart. Max was not asked to enchant copying quills or to raise buildings from rubble or to scry the dark corners of the world for a glimpse of far-off happenings. These things fell to the frail blond boy who shared this room and who maintained that he had good reasons for the secret errands that had been occupying his time.
While Max had many confidants—his father, Bob, Cooper, even Hannah—it suddenly struck him that David was very much alone. When David had arrived at Rowan, the only family he acknowledged was a very sick mother back in Colorado. To Max’s knowledge, this mother had abandoned David, whose early letters had been stamped “return to sender.” David had borne this as he bore so many things—with a quiet stoicism that belied his youth. Of course, Ms. Kraken or Ms. Richter or any of the scholars would have been thrilled to serve as a surrogate family, but Max knew that David did not look to them for such things. He looked to Max. In all other matters, David Menlo kept his own counsel.
But there were times, Max reasoned, that one could not keep his own counsel. David admitted that he had seen Prusias before … but where? Max’s thoughts flitted faster through his mind. David knew things, yet he refused to answer very reasonable questions. David was experimenting with substances that might be dangerous to Max. David had been summoning things, and this was now a strict violation of Astaroth’s edicts.
Max thumbed the edge of the silken bed curtains. David had been using his secret exit in search of answers; perhaps Max could, too. For all he knew, David was in great peril. Max would have failed his friend and violated his oath if he did not go searching for David. He glanced at the Red Branch tattoo upon his wrist. It was his solemn duty to protect his evasive roommate … for everyone’s good.
Max pulled the drapes aside. Despite his nagging conscience, he stepped into the space beside David’s still-unused bed and peered about in search of a door, some subtle gateway to the outside world. Far off, Old Tom rang seven o’clock while Max jostled the bed, searched beneath it, and flung blankets about in a desperate quest for David’s elusive door. He found naught but crumpled parchment, a Rowan sweater, and an empty bottle of crusted ulu blood—a rare substance priceless for its ability to translate arcane languages.
Max slouched dejectedly on the bed. He was not only guilty of violating David’s privacy; he had further failed to find anything of use. Sighing, Max simply sat still for a moment until something moved within his peripheral vision. Cocking his head, he stared at the headboard, whose mahogany grain was swirling in and out of focus as though viewed through an adjusting lens. Jumping to his feet, Max stood at the bedside and exulted in the thrill of discovery as the dark grains snaked into discernible letters. This same thrill evaporated, however, when the letters joined to spell out a snooper’s ultimate nemesis.
PASSWORD?
“Menlo!” blurted Max. “Colorado … Maya … Ulu … Richter … Sidh … Cobbler … Sorcerer … Ice cream … no, no, no!”
The last utterance was not a password attempt, but an exasperated reaction to the headboard, whose message had begun to fade. Letters became clusters of dark grain, and soon the headboard had returned to its original state. Max rapped it, but nothing happened.
“So close,” he moaned, sinking his head onto David’s pillow. He gazed up at the magnified constellations overhead. Cassiopeia shimmered into view, followed by Perseus, and then Cetus. Max blinked as the golden threads that comprised the mythical sea monster dissipated into tiny motes of light.
When Max awoke, he was in his own bed. Propping himself up on his elbows, he saw that he was still wearing his shoes and that a glass of water had been placed on his night table. Swinging his legs over the bed, he pushed through his drawn curtains and looked out over the rail to the room’s lower level.
David sat at the table, methodically writing in his journal. Max marveled at how David had adapted to the use of his left hand, which was now as dexterous as the one he had lost. The pen moved quickly, and David rocked back and forth as he was wont to do when deep in thought. Taking his glass of water, Max padded down the stairs.
“David, I’m sorry I tried to pry into your things,” he said hoarsely. “It was wrong.”
David did not respond immediately, but instead pushed back from his seat and ambled over to his armoire to remove a battered shoebox. Opening it, he dumped a pile of baseball cards onto the table and sorted through them. Finding the one he sought, he plucked it up.
“Come and have a look,” he said, holding it between his fingers.
Max peered at the card, which showed the faint image of a slugger in the midst of a ferocious swing. It looked like an overexposed photograph.
“This was my favorite card,” said David. “I used to collect baseball cards back in Colorado. We didn’t really have any money, but the cards were cheap and you got some chewing gum with every pack. Whenever I had a dollar to spare, I’d ride my bike down the hill to Twill’s Tobacco Shop and Sundries,” he said with a nostalgic smile. “I’d imagine it’s long gone now. Anyway, I loved the anticipation. I’d buy my dollar’s worth and pedal as fast as I could to a spot by the river where I could sit and get away from all the headaches at home. I’d open each pack and chew the gum and turn over each card like it held my fortune. Most of the cards were junk, but one day I found this.…”
“Is it really valuable?” asked Max.
“No,” laughed David. “It was worth ten bucks maybe—but it was better than anything I’d ever found. Money was tight at my house. My mom couldn’t work, and the neighbors took advantage of her. They knew when she’d get her government checks, and they’d always show up with some story about how they needed a loan just this one time. But it was never just one time. And they never paid her back.”
“Why?” asked Max. “Why did she keep giving them the money?”
David stared at the card. “My mother is handicapped, Max,” he replied carefully. “Her IQ’s not much higher than sixty. It wasn’t a very hard thing to fool her.”
Max nodded in understanding, but inwardly he reeled. It was exceedingly ra
re for David to mention anything about his past life, but he had alluded to his mother once and to the fact that she could not really take care of him. Max had always assumed she was very ill or was an alcoholic.
“Well,” David continued. “One summer, one of the neighbors—Mr. Bailey—came by with a broken teakettle and sold it to my mom. I was afraid of Mr. Bailey and hid behind the couch, watching him look through her wallet and count her money. He told her it was her lucky day—his teakettle was worth two hundred dollars but he’d let her have it for the ninety-three dollars she had on her. Well, Mom handed over the money, and Mr. Bailey laughed and told her she was one sharp cookie.”
“David,” said Max quietly. “That’s awful.”
David only nodded. “That was all the money we had, and the welfare check wouldn’t arrive for another week,” he explained. “There was no food left in the house. The next day I sat and watched her open the refrigerator and frown and then go through her purse. She did it six or seven times. She never really made the connection that the money was gone and we couldn’t buy any more food. The next week was horrible. She got so hungry that she’d just sob and lie on the floor. When she finally fell asleep, I’d take out this baseball card and study it under the lamp. I could have sold that card, Max. Mr. Twill would have given me ten dollars for it. But I didn’t.”
“So what did you do?” asked Max.
“When it got dark, I’d scrounge through the neighbors’ trash for garbage,” David replied, placing the card facedown on the table. “I fed my mother dog food, Max, but I got to keep this baseball card.”
Neither spoke while David scooped the cards back into the box.
“Everyone does shameful things,” said David, breaking the silence. “It was wrong for you to invade my privacy. It was wrong for me to keep that card. I’m sorry for what I did. I know you’re sorry, too.”
Max looked sharply at his roommate. “To be honest, David, I’m only sorry I got caught. I want to know what you’re doing.”