“You!” he screamed at Cooper, trying to step past Nigel at the Agent. “What did you do to him?”
Cooper ignored Max and gestured to his companions to lift Mr. McDaniels out of the car. Max felt Nigel’s hands holding his shoulders.
“Max,” Nigel pleaded. “It’s going to be fine—”
Max shoved Nigel off to the side and rushed at Cooper.
The other man saw Max coming and moved to intercept him. Max reacted, ducking as the man’s arms reached out, then punching hard up and into the man’s ribs. Cooper stepped quickly around the car, putting it between Max and himself as the woman went to grab Max’s wrists. He was too quick, slipping out of her grasp and springing up onto the roof of the limousine. Cooper was calmly backing away toward the fountain, his face composed and unafraid; Max was determined to change that.
Max leapt.
Cooper stood unmoving as Max hurtled through the air. Suddenly, the Agent disappeared behind a wall of water as the fountain suddenly emptied itself to form a protective dome around him. Max shrieked as he landed on top of it. He clawed furiously at the improbably tough, shimmering surface to get at the shadowy, rippling figure behind it. The water began to hiss and steam, giving way before him. Max pried apart an opening and forced his head and arm through.
Cooper held a sheathed knife to Max’s throat.
“Poor choice,” the Agent whispered.
Suddenly, Cooper gritted his teeth, and the knife fell from his hand. Gasping, he dropped to his knees, crumpling to the ground like an aluminum can being crushed by invisible hands. Max was set gently on his feet by some unseen force as the barrier dissolved, its waters streaming over his shoes to fill the fountain once again.
Max saw David standing on the fountain’s rim, his face deadly serious as he focused on Cooper’s motionless body. A crowd had gathered on the front steps of the Manse, and Miss Awolowo was doing her best to get them back inside.
Max ran to his father.
Nigel and the woman held Mr. McDaniels between them; the man Max had punched sat propped against the limousine, holding his side and taking uneven breaths.
“Your father is fine, Max,” grunted Nigel, straining under Mr. McDaniels’s weight. “Unconscious, but fine. Lend us a hand and let’s take him to a guest room.”
Ignoring the stares and whispers, Max helped carry his father inside.
The next day, Scott McDaniels lay sleeping on top of a four-poster bed, wearing one of Bob’s enormous flannel shirts; it draped over his not insubstantial body like a nightgown. Max placed a fresh washcloth to his father’s forehead.
“Feeling better, Dad?” His father smiled and squeezed Max’s hand.
“A little,” he said. “Just give me a minute.”
Max sat at a small desk and gazed out a white-curtained window at the orchard below. A number of Fourth Years were walking down the path, laughing.
“Want me to close the window?” Max asked.
“Nah,” he said. “Breeze feels nice.”
Max tapped his knee and watched his father’s mammoth torso expanding in slow, ponderous breaths. He turned away and studied the room’s woven mats of dried grasses and furniture of dark woods, wicker, and smooth green cushions. Max left his seat to explore the private bath of cool stone tile and silver faucets. Finally, his dad’s voice rumbled from the other room.
“What?” said Max, poking his head around the corner. Mr. McDaniels was now sitting up; the damp washcloth had fallen onto the floor.
“The museum,” he mumbled. “The Art Institute—on Mom’s birthday. You weren’t lying to me, were you?”
“No,” said Max, sitting on the bed next to his dad and retrieving the washcloth. “That’s the day this all started, I guess. That’s the day I found that room and saw it.”
“‘It’ what?”
“The tapestry. It was my vision—it let the people here know about me.”
“I had no idea,” croaked Mr. McDaniels, shaking his head and looking around the room. “No idea that anything like this existed, much less that my son was a part of it….”
There was a soft knock on the door, and Max went to open it.
Mum came hurtling through the door, holding a tray of toast and tea.
“I came as soon as they’d let me,” she panted. “Oh, you poor things! Let Mum take care of the nice, big man.”
Setting the tray on the bed, Mum tittered and danced an excited little jig at Mr. McDaniels, who stood speechless against the wall. Max quickly inserted himself between his father and the hag. Mum began petting Max’s hand and humming contentedly, but her crocodile eye remained fixed on Scott McDaniels.
“Mum,” said Max firmly, “I’d like you to meet my dad, Scott McDaniels.”
“Oh, how delightful!” exclaimed the hag, using the introduction as an excuse to try and tunnel past Max.
“And,” said Max, blocking her path, “seeing as he’s a guest and not a meal, I’d like you to sniff him. Now.”
Max ignored his father’s groan and focused on Mum, who recoiled in apparent shock and embarrassment. She glanced in panic at Mr. McDaniels and then at Max before laughing indulgently.
“Your son, Max, is quite the teaser,” she said, wagging her finger. “He forgets that Mum is a reformed hag. Surely some primitive sniffing ritual is unnecessary and unseemly, don’t you think?”
“It is necessary, Mum, and you’ll do it or I’ll go get an instructor.”
Mum laughed off Max’s demand with polite indifference.
“Would you like a tour of the kitchens, sir?” she inquired sweetly. “There’s quite a feast in store for dinner this evening.”
“Mum!” snapped Max. “You sniff him right now or I’ll go get David.”
Mum shrieked and shot a glance at Max.
“You wouldn’t.”
“I would,” insisted Max. “I can have him here in two minutes.”
“Oh, these silly games we play.” She rolled her half-lidded eyes at Mr. McDaniels. “If your son and I weren’t dating, I’d never put up with it—”
“Mum!”
“Fine!” she roared, reaching past Max to seize Mr. McDaniels’s wrist in her meaty hand. His father gave a startled yelp and practically climbed the wall behind him.
“He’s moving too much!” she snarled over her shoulder. “I can’t work like this!”
“It’s okay, Dad,” Max assured him. “It’ll be over in a second.”
Shutting his eyes, Scott McDaniels stopped struggling and let the plump, ferocious-looking creature squeeze and pinch at his arm before running her quivering nostrils along its length.
“Done!” she bawled, flinging his arm aside. “And it’s a crying shame, too!” The hag looked Mr. McDaniels over from head to toe and shook her head sadly, before stalking out and slamming the door behind her.
“Oh my God,” muttered Mr. McDaniels, thick beads of sweat running down his forehead.
“That’s the hardest part,” Max promised. “Now that she’s sniffed you, you’re okay.”
Mr. McDaniels did not answer but merely glanced down at the enormous flannel shirt he was wearing, its sleeves cut in half so their length would accommodate him.
“Who does this belong to?” asked Mr. McDaniels slowly.
“Bob. He’s our other chef…. We should go meet him, too.”
“I need to lie back down,” Mr. McDaniels muttered, peeling back the covers and crawling beneath them. “I’ll meet Bob later.”
There was another quiet knock. Annoyed, Max walked over and wrenched the door open.
“Mum—” snapped Max.
Cooper stood outside.
“The Director would like to see you,” he said softly.
Max stared at the man’s scars and the scattered patches of light blond hair visible now that Cooper had removed his cap. Glancing back at his father, Max saw he was lying still with the washcloth flung once more over his eyes.
“I don’t know if I should leave him here alone…
,” said Max.
Cooper nodded, in apparent understanding.
“I’ll watch over him,” the Agent volunteered, clearing his throat and glancing down at Max. “Or I can get another…”
“No,” said Max, looking hard at Cooper. “No, I’d rather it be you.”
Cooper’s granite features softened. He bowed his head and quietly shut the door, standing outside as Max left the guest wing and made for Ms. Richter’s office.
David was already waiting when he got there, along with Nigel. The dagger Mr. Lukens had given Max lay on the Director’s desk.
“How is your father?” asked Ms. Richter, motioning for Max to take a seat. “He’s doing okay,” said Max quietly. His face began to turn red. “How is that man? The man I hit…”
“Three broken ribs,” said Nigel. “Fortunately, he was wearing Nanomail…. I should consider myself lucky that it was him on the receiving end and not me.”
“I’m sorry,” said Max, looking away.
“You need to control that temper of yours, Max,” said Ms. Richter, examining the dagger. “But by all accounts, we were very fortunate last evening, broken ribs aside. Max, do you know anything about this dagger?”
Max shook his head.
“It’s a replica of a famous dagger—the Topkapi Dagger, given as a gift to the shah of Persia. It was lucky for us that Nigel recognized it,” explained Ms. Richter.
Max listened carefully, positive that he had heard the word “Topkapi” before. He turned in his seat and looked at the Director’s digital map, which was activated and glowing on the opposite wall. The map showed the city of Istanbul; number codes indicating individual missions formed a wide perimeter around a particular section of the city.
“Topkapi Palace,” he breathed. “That’s where you said the missing Potentials might be.”
“That’s right,” said Ms. Richter, glancing at David. “It was a trap. Mr. Lukens is in the service of the Enemy. Apparently he couldn’t resist a little gibe that he believed would go unnoticed until it was too late.”
“Where is he?” asked Max.
“He escaped,” she said. “Others came to his aid and we might have endangered your father had we pressed the issue.”
“Is Mr. Lukens a vye?” asked Max.
“No, Max,” said Ms. Richter. “He is not a vye; he is merely a man in the service of the Enemy. Just one of many, I am sorry to say. The Enemy’s promises are very tempting….”
Ms. Richter placed the dagger back within its case and snapped it shut.
“Mr. Lukens’s arrogance saved many lives,” she said softly. “But our little victory has disturbing implications. The Enemy knew precisely when and where our people would strike.”
Her eyes locked onto Max’s.
“I have already informed David. Neither of you is to spend any time alone with a member of this school’s faculty or senior staff—with the exception of myself, Nigel, or Miss Awolowo. If anything suspicious occurs, you are to activate your security watch immediately. You are to keep this watch on your person at all times. Is that understood?”
Max frowned.
“What about my Amplification lessons with Miss Boon?” he asked.
Ms. Richter nodded.
“They are to continue—Cooper or I will also be in attendance. Now, I know you have midterms this week. I suggest the two of you get some studying accomplished while Mr. McDaniels is resting.”
David got up and went to the door, but Max lingered to ask a question.
“Ms. Richter, what’s going to happen to my dad?” he asked quietly.
The Director was gazing out the window, massaging her hands. She turned and smiled at Max.
“He is most welcome to stay here, of course. Rowan will be his home.”
Max almost knocked the portraits off the wall as he ran back to his father’s room, bursting with the best news he’d had in months.
A week later, however, his joy was forgotten as Max rubbed his temples and stared at the last question in his exam booklet. It stared back in small black letters:
50. Prioritize the following strategic components according to their importance in the scenario described above.
——Position
——Resources
——Initiative
——Flexibility
——Information
Max sighed and glanced out the window; a number of older students were throwing Frisbees that bucked in the lingering gusts from the previous day’s storm. The early-afternoon sun coaxed radiant hues from the grounds, as Rowan’s campus had blossomed quickly with spring. Max looked longingly at clean stretches of emerald lawn and walkways bustling with daffodils and tulips, Peruvian lilies and Spanish bluebells. The Kestrel bobbed on a brilliant cobalt sea. Cynthia was the only other student left in the classroom. Mr. Watanabe had already begun to grade the midterms; his pen shot across the pages like a typewriter carriage.
“One minute left,” muttered Mr. Watanabe.
The instructor smiled at Max and turned back to the completed exams. Cynthia rifled through the pages of her test with a revolted expression on her face. With a few despondent slashes of his pencil, Max randomly assigned numbers to the blank spaces before surrendering his exam.
Connor and David were waiting on Old Tom’s steps, chatting in the bright sunlight.
“So?” asked Connor with an expectant grin.
“Failed,” said Max, hoisting his backpack higher on his shoulder. “How was it for you guys?”
“I squeaked by,” admitted Connor. “I peeked at David’s, though. Sickening, really—chock-full of correct answers with little side notes questioning Watanabe’s assumptions.”
David shrugged, looking sleepy.
“Whatever.” Max grinned. “Forget that test. Midterms are over and we’re going off campus!”
“Yahoo!” whooped Connor, flinging his bag aside and sprinting to intercept a Frisbee that skimmed over the grass nearby. Catching it neatly in one hand, he whirled to toss it to an expectant Fourth Year girl but accidentally flung it far out over the rocky bluff and down onto the beach below. “Sorry!” he yelled, wincing under a verbal barrage as he loped back sheepishly to retrieve his bag.
The three made their way toward the fountain to join their classmates.
Once Cynthia finally arrived, the First Years headed out to Rowan Township. Mr. Vincenti, Miss Boon, and several other faculty members and adults went with them. Max focused on one in particular—his father, who had been slowly acclimating to life at Rowan and had come to join them. They walked along together, smiling as Connor provided running commentary regarding people and places as they went. Connor took special pains to point out one student, who was pestering Miss Boon about her Mystics exam.
“And that—that’s Lucia over there. Italian. Fiery. She practically attacked me with her lips when Kettlemouth—that’s her charge—started singing back in February. She claims it was the frog, but I say chemistry….”
“You can judge for yourself, Mr. McDaniels,” said David with a grin. “I’ve got a photo of them on my computer. Actually, I use it as my screensaver.”
“You said you’d delete that!” protested Connor, shooting Mr. McDaniels a glance and turning scarlet.
Max was anxious to show his father Rowan Township and thrilled that Ms. Richter had decided to resume chaperoned visits—if only over the protests of many teachers, including a recovered and unapologetic Mr. Morrow. While Rowan offered endless opportunities to explore, the students had been confined to its grounds for months and were becoming a bit stir-crazy.
Max and his friends left their bags with a heap of others at the base of the tree where Mr. Morrow had carved his name decades before. Then they dragged Mr. McDaniels to Mr. Babel’s patisserie, where the display window had changed with the seasons. It now featured white-chocolate saplings whose branches cradled spun-sugar birds’ nests laden with marbled chocolate eggs. Behind the counter, Mr. Babel worked on a magnificent cathedral ma
de of brownie slabs and chocolate tiles.
Max eyed the display case as Mr. Babel walked around the corner to introduce himself to Scott McDaniels. Once he heard his father slip into “salesman voice,” Max knew he would have some time to choose carefully from among the hundreds of sweets lining the glass cases.
“Oh, no you don’t!” huffed Sarah, clamping a hand over his eyes. “Not until after you break the records next week.”
Max glowered at her playfully. His marks in Training and Games had been approaching several Rowan records, and Sarah had assumed the role of his unofficial trainer. She blinked at Max’s evil look, before abruptly wiping her mouth clean of crumbs.
“Let’s go sit outside,” she suggested sympathetically, while Connor and David bought large wedges of broken chocolate bunnies that were being sold at a discount.
“Be out there in a minute,” Mr. McDaniels said, before lowering his voice. “Can you believe he hasn’t even heard of Bedford Bros. Crispy Soup Wafers?”
“Dad, they’re not your client anymore.”
“I know, I know,” said Mr. McDaniels, shrugging with a rueful smile. “That doesn’t mean it’s not a quality product….”
Max gave a relieved sigh as his father resumed his conversation with Mr. Babel; it was the first real sign that Mr. McDaniels was recovering from the many surprises of the previous week.
The students walked outside, where Miss Boon was sitting on a park bench and writing feverishly in her journal. She glanced at them and nodded as they filed past to gather at the tree where they had left their bags. Several First Years began climbing the tree, swinging their legs over its thick branches. Rolf called down to Max from a branch some fifteen feet above.
“Think you can jump up here?”
“I think so,” said Max, glancing over at Miss Boon, whose face was buried in her book.
“No adults are looking,” said Rolf, peering around the green. “C’mon, it’ll be good training for Renard.”