They filed out after Cooper, squeezing through the narrow corridor past bleary-eyed officials. The station was nearly empty; just a few coffee-sipping men and women loitered near another track under the bored gaze of a slouching policeman.

Cooper strode purposefully for the exit while they trailed behind him like dutiful aides. As they neared one of the exits, a middle-aged woman ran up to Cooper.

“Oskar!” she said, embracing him. “Wie geht es Ihnen?”

“Danke, gut,” replied Cooper stiffly, removing her hands. “Es tut mir leid, aber wir sind spät.”

The woman’s smile faded. She turned and watched them go with a puzzled expression. In his peripheral vision, Max saw the policeman straighten and stare at them.

“Cooper,” he hissed.

“Keep walking; stay calm,” said the Agent without breaking stride.

They stepped out the main exit into the cold gray morning. Hurrying past several commuters, Cooper led them to a street crossing, where they were forced to wait at a traffic light. An undisguised vye stood waiting across the street, looking utterly out of place amidst the automobiles and buildings.

A car honked to their left. Max turned to see a sleek silver limousine idling at the curb. The driver stepped out and addressed them.

“Guten Tag, Herren,” said the driver, holding open the door.

Cooper stared at him. The light changed, and the vye began padding across the street.

“Doktor Rasmussen sendet Grüβe,” said the driver, glancing nervously at the approaching vye. He beckoned at the open door. Offering a curt nod, Cooper led them quickly to the car, where Max piled in after his father. The door was locked and they pulled away from the curb. The vye peered at the license plate but continued on toward the station.

“Welcome to Frankfurt,” said the driver, accelerating past several cars with diplomatic plates. “I speak English and I can assure you that your disguises are no longer necessary.”

“How do you know who we are?” asked Cooper quietly.

“I don’t,” replied the driver. “I can only definitively say that Scott McDaniels is in this car. I assume the rest of you come from Rowan as well.”

“The pill,” muttered David, nudging Mr. McDaniels. “That pill Rasmussen made you swallow . . . it must have been a—”

“Homing device,” replied the driver with a satisfied smile. “Yes, we’ve been following your progress for quite some time.”

In a blur, Cooper leaned forward and pressed his knife against the driver’s throat.

“Have you been sharing that information?” the Agent whispered.

“I’m quite sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the driver replied in a steady voice. “We have already aided you twice now. Dr. Rasmussen is eagerly awaiting your safe arrival.”

Cooper said nothing and kept the knife still. The driver did his best to appear calm, but Max saw tiny beads of sweat forming on his forehead. Cooper muttered several words; Max felt a slight tingling as the illusion drained away. Sitting up in the backseat, Max saw his own face reflected in the rearview mirror.

“Look at me,” said Cooper.

The driver glanced at the Agent. His eyes widened in shock at the waxy, scarecrow face hovering inches from his own. Cooper’s voice was deadly calm; his Cockney accent thickened.

“If I find that the Workshop is responsible for the death of Antonio de Lorca, I’m going to hold you personally responsible, mate. Do you understand me?”

The driver swallowed hard and nodded. Miss Boon put a hand on Cooper’s arm and gently guided the knife away.

“You said Dr. Rasmussen is awaiting us?” she asked.

“Yes, madam,” said the driver, looking back at her gratefully. “You are to be his honored guests.”

Mum made a disbelieving face, but Miss Boon shushed her. Max opened David’s pack; Nick practically leapt into his face. The lymrill nipped Max hard on the finger and circled into a peevish ball.

“Is that the lymrill?” asked the driver, trying to glimpse Nick in the rearview mirror.

“How do you know Nick’s a lymrill?” asked Max.

“Dr. Rasmussen described him,” said the driver. “A most interesting creature.”

The driver drove them past a government building and on a circuitous route through the city. They ended up, however, at a parking garage only a few blocks from the train station. The driver waved at the attendant, who promptly lifted the gate. The car plunged into the dimly lit structure and proceeded to wind its way down. When it reached the lowest level, the driver accelerated smoothly toward a dead end of gray concrete. The speed pushed Max back against his seat, but the car made no sound.

Cooper fidgeted and gripped the backrest.

“What are you doing?” he growled, leaning forward once again.

“Please remain calm,” replied the driver. “The increased speed is necessary.”

They raced past thick pylons and stalls filled with expensive automobiles. The speedometer crept past 120 kilometers per hour. Their acceleration was so smooth it seemed they were stationary and the wall was racing toward them. Mum shrieked and covered her eyes. Mr. McDaniels hugged Max and David to him.

They sped right through the barrier.

For a brief moment, the car went dark. When he could see again, Max whirled around in his seat and watched the wall rapidly receding in their wake.

“So it was an illusion, then,” said Cooper, finally easing back in his seat.

“Not at all, sir,” said the driver. “That wall’s solid enough to stop a tank.”

“I don’t follow,” said Miss Boon, prying Mum off her.

“Nanotechnology,” replied the driver. “We’ve adjusted its properties to admit objects traveling at the appropriate speed. A smidgeon slower and . . . splat!”

“Cool!” said David, joining Max at the back window. The automobile was descending at a steep grade on what appeared to be a four-lane highway tunneled deep into the earth. Slim blue lights lined the rock walls at regular intervals.

“You boys will like the Workshop,” said the driver, smiling. “There is lots to see, and Jason Barrett is anxious to get reacquainted.”

“How is Jason?” asked Max, excited to see his friend, a recent graduate of Rowan.

“Very well,” said the driver. “A most promising young man—working with our engineers in Applications. Altogether very thorough with his research.”

“You’re doing research?” asked Miss Boon incredulously. “Now? Haven’t you been affected by all that’s happening?”

“Self-sufficiency is our driving creed,” replied the driver. “We don’t need your food or power plants or communications networks. We’ve already solved those problems.”

“I wonder why Dr. Rasmussen should eagerly await our arrival,” said Miss Boon with a prim smile. “It seems the Workshop has everything it needs.”

“We are self-sufficient but not discourteous,” said the driver, expertly guiding them down a slow, spiraling descent. The car leveled out and he accelerated at a rate Max had never experienced before. They rocketed through the tunnel in a blur of polished rock and streaming lights. The speedometer read 350 kilometers per hour as they whirred through another wall, this one made of gleaming black metal. Then the car slowed to a purr, and the driver wheeled it toward a massive pyramid of smooth, sheer rock that was set at the center of an enormous cavern.

Max gazed in mute astonishment at the scale of the space and everything within it. The pyramid must have been a mile wide, with a pair of monstrous silver doors set into its face. A dozen other tunnels emptied into the cavern, feeding toward the great pyramid; some were hundreds of feet in diameter. The driver eased the car to a stop among a host of identical vehicles parked near the towering entrance.

“How far down are we?” croaked Mr. McDaniels, following Max out the door and rocking back on his heels to survey the space.

“Approximately seven kilometers below sea level,” responded the driver. “Nearly twice as deep as a diamond mine. But we have spaces deeper still.”

Miss Boon waved her hand through the air and rubbed her fingers together.

“But it’s cool here,” she said. “It should be hot—intolerably hot this far down.”

“We learned long ago to harness the heat and pressures at such a depth,” chuckled the driver, leading them toward the towering silver doors. “Where you perceive a threat, we recognize an opportunity. The geothermal heat we capture and convert from this site alone could power a major city.”

“I’ll bet Vincenti would love to see this place,” whispered Max to David, referring to Rowan’s technology specialist.

“Your Joseph Vincenti would have little interest in what we do here,” echoed a voice ahead of them.

Jesper Rasmussen stood at the threshold of an inconspicuous opening next to the gargantuan doors. A smile creased his skeletal, hairless features. “You see, your Joseph Vincenti makes Devices. We make machines. I think you can tell the difference.” He laughed and walked forward to greet them. “I’m sorry we cannot open them for you,” he said, waving at the colossal doors behind him. “It’s quite a sight, but I could hardly justify the energy expenditure. My colleagues would think I’m getting vain.” He stopped and gave a short bow to David and the McDanielses. “It is nice to see you under less dire circumstances. Welcome to the Frankfurt Workshop.”

“Hmph,” said Mr. McDaniels, shaking the proffered hand.

“What do you think of our little home?” asked Rasmussen, gesturing at the looming monolithic structure. “What you see is ten times greater than the pyramid at Giza and you’re only glimpsing half.”

Max imagined the gargantuan structure extending far below the smooth rock flooring at his feet. He felt infinitesimal.

“Let’s get you settled, then,” said Rasmussen, dismissing the driver and steering David forward. Mum reached out and clutched Max’s hand as they followed Rasmussen through the small side door that might have been an entrance for insects.

They were led into a dim white room with a steel door at the opposite end.

“This will take but a moment,” said Rasmussen, closing the door to the outside. “A sterilization procedure. We’ve become very cautious about contamination from microorganisms. You won’t feel a thing.”

As he locked the door, the room was illuminated with rapid pulses of light like thousands of camera flashes firing one after the other. Shapes swam before Max’s eyes; Nick howled and raced around the room’s perimeter. The flashes abruptly stopped, and a green light appeared on the steel door’s handle.

“Your eyes will recover momentarily,” said Rasmussen. “My apologies for the duration, but we’ve never had to sterilize one of her kind before. I’m sure the hag understands.”

“Oh, indeed I do, sir!” said Mum, clasping her hands and offering a low curtsy. “We hags are indeed a filthy lot! I’m much obliged to you for zapping me crawlies!”

“Not at all,” said Rasmussen, strolling forward to have his iris scanned.

As they filed out of the room, Max caught Mum scrabbling furiously at her nose. She dragged her finger along the wall, leaving a shiny trail. She shrugged at Max and waddled after the group, humming with satisfaction.

“We’ll first get you settled,” said Rasmussen, leading them down a short corridor that opened into an enormous atrium. Max blinked and exchanged glances with his father; he could have sworn they were outside. Live redwood trees and sequoias rose hundreds of feet in the air, creating halos of shade from warm sunlight that filtered through glass panes far above. Dozens of people were sitting at circular tables, chatting over tea or huddled in quiet conversation around schematic drawings. Woven baskets of fresh fruit were arranged in neat rows beneath the open window of a cozy café built of rose-colored stone. Max breathed in deeply and felt the oxygen-rich air sharpen his senses.

“Are those trees real?” asked Mr. McDaniels.

“Of course they’re real,” replied Rasmussen proudly. “Only the sunlight is simulated.”

“Do they sell coffee there?” asked David, meandering toward the café.

“Any coffee you might care to try,” said Rasmussen. “But it’s not for sale. Nothing at the Workshop is for sale. Just tell Natalia what you would like.”

“So I suppose those great big apples are just there for the taking?” asked Mum.

“Of course.”

“And those croissants there? I guess I could just stuff my mouth full of ’em?”

“If that’s what you wish.”

The hag’s small red eyes darted greedily around the atrium.

“And that handsome bloke sitting by the rosebush? I suppose I could simply—”

“Mum!” hissed Miss Boon. “Behave yourself.”

Dr. Rasmussen laughed.

“I know you have had a long journey. I’ll be sure to have some refreshments sent to your rooms.”

“Room,” said Cooper. “One room will suffice.”

“Cooper,” whined Max and David together.

“We’ve been stuck together an awful lot,” said Mr. McDaniels, craning his neck about. “Maybe a little space to spread out wouldn’t be such a bad thing.”

“One room,” repeated Cooper, ignoring them. “And we’d be obliged for a bit of rest. As you said, we’ve had a long journey.”

“As you wish,” said Rasmussen, offering a curious smile. He beckoned to a tall woman wearing a trim gray outfit. “Can you please take our guests to a suite in the VIP quarters?”

“Of course,” said the young woman. “Please follow me.”

They were taken to an elevator bank that was unlike any Max had ever seen; the elevator was a sort of smooth oval pod that was propelled along without any appreciable sense of friction. They traveled at a steep trajectory before suddenly leveling off to skim smoothly along a white plastic tube lined with rows of shiny silver disks like the suckers on a tentacle. A violin concerto played from a hidden speaker.

“Er, are you Mr. Rasmussen’s secretary?” asked Mr. McDaniels.

“I’m a physicist,” replied the woman coolly.

Mr. McDaniels blushed and coughed into his fist.

“Have you seen what’s happening aboveground?” asked Miss Boon.

“Not personally,” replied the woman. “I’ve never been above-ground.”

Max’s jaw dropped. Even Cooper glanced up in interest.

“You mean you’ve never left the Workshop?” asked Miss Boon.

“I understand that must sound odd,” said the woman, “but there’s never been a reason to leave.”

“So you’ve never seen a hag before?” asked Mum, giving a regal turn to present her bulbous profile.

“Of course I have,” said the woman, glancing at her watch. “There’s a stuffed specimen in our Biology Museum, and we have a dozen genetic samples on record.”

Mum’s eyes widened in shock; her lower lip began to quiver.

“You’ve got a hag stuffed in some dusty museum?”

“The museum is perfectly clean.”

“ You scrawny little—”

Miss Boon clamped her hand over Mum’s mouth while the gray hag flushed green. Max was impressed that Miss Boon could keep a hold on Mum, who was notoriously strong for her size. After several furious seconds Mum stopped struggling.

“Are you going to be polite?” asked Miss Boon firmly.

Mum glared at the teacher but nodded. The hand was removed and the hag leapt to her feet.

“It’s my cousin Gertrude!” Mum bawled. “Gertie went on holiday twenty years ago and—”

Miss Boon sighed and snapped her fingers before Mum’s spitting, hissing mouth. The shrieks and accusations ceased as though Mum had been unplugged.

“Thank you,” said the woman as the pod came to a gentle stop. “I’ll take you to your room.”

For all of the Workshop’s emphasis on machines, Max found their room surprisingly organic. Its palette was light, its textures were natural, and the internal geometry converged to pleasing curves. It had two large bedrooms and baths and a common room complete with burning fireplace. The woman touched a screen that was set into a wall of burled hardwood.

“Just address the monitor if you have any requests,” she said. “I have to be returning to work.”

Cooper nodded and shut the door behind her.

“Assume everything we do and say will be seen and heard,” he muttered, opening David’s bag and unpacking their things. Hoisting his own pack, Cooper disappeared into one of the bathrooms to shower. Max and David followed Mr. McDaniels into one of the bedrooms, where they collapsed onto a huge soothing green comforter. Nick leapt up on the bed to nestle between the McDanielses. Scratching the lymrill’s silky ears, Max closed his eyes and drifted to his first satisfactory sleep in a month.

“That’s right,” she confirmed. “And six more hams on the bone. Honey-glazed.”

“Will that be all, madam?” asked the beleaguered-looking woman on the screen.

“And perfume,” Mum thundered, shooting a finger toward the ceiling. “Something expens—”

Cooper strode to the computer screen and banged it off.

“I wasn’t finished!” hissed Mum.

“Get dressed,” said Cooper. “We’re not on vacation.”

The Agent ignored Mum’s departing curses and threats as he pulled on his shirt of nanomail. He looked tired; there was a purplish tinge to the skin beneath his undamaged eye.

“Are you all right, Cooper?” asked Max.

Cooper nodded and reached for the wavy-bladed kris. He oiled its blade with a black cloth before strapping the scabbard to the small of his back. He reached for his black sweater and sniffed it.

“They have plenty of clean clothes in the closets,” offered Max.

“Threaded with audiowire and filament cameras, no doubt,” replied Cooper. “Stick with what we brought, eh? Whether it needs a wash or not.”

Cooper glanced at the door to the room where David and Mr. McDaniels were sleeping. He crossed over and shut it before taking a seat at a small dining table near the fire. He beckoned for Max to sit.

“How do you feel?” asked Cooper.

“Fine,” said Max. “Hungry, but fine.”

“We haven’t had much time for training,” muttered the Agent. “Do you feel sharp? Capable, I mean.”

“I do,” said Max, puzzling at the man’s earnest tone.

“That’s good,” said the Agent, rubbing his hands together. “That’s very good.”

“Cooper, what’s wrong?”

The pale blue eyes darted away from Max to stare at the fire. The Agent seemed to choose his words carefully.

“We all have a purpose,” said Cooper. “I used to think mine was to be alone—to hunt Rowan’s enemies and keep dark things where they belonged. I was wrong. My true purpose has been to keep you safe—you and David, your father and Miss Boon. Even Mum.”

Max began to speak, but Cooper held up a finger to silence him.

“A time may come when I cannot keep you all safe. You are inexperienced, but you are a member of the Red Branch and you have been blooded. As of this moment, I am assigning you a most important objective.”

The Agent pushed a thin slip of paper toward Max. There were only three words, but they sent a chill down Max’s spine.

They watched the paper blacken and curl and dissolve to ash.

“Well, at least it’s straightforward,” said Max, trying to lighten the mood.

“Straightforward, yes,” said Cooper. “But not simple. It must be your reason for being. Nothing can come between you and this objective.”

Cooper inclined his head toward one of the bathrooms, where Mr. McDaniels’s booming baritone could be heard from the shower. Max pondered several scenarios.

“You mean if I had to choose—”

“There is no choosing,” said the Agent, shaking his head. “There can be no hesitation. Your objective is clear.”

Max glowered at Cooper.

“I will look after him, Max,” offered the Agent. “You know that.”

Max nodded, looking hard at Cooper. “I do. But there’s one more thing I want to know.”

“And what’s that?”

“Did you know my mother?” asked Max simply.

Cooper blinked but sat perfectly still. They stared at each other for several seconds.

“Why would you ask me that?” asked the Agent slowly, rising to retrieve a bottle of water from a slim silver refrigerator.

“I saw your face when my dad showed you the photograph,” said Max. “You’ve seen her before, haven’t you?”

A vein throbbed in Cooper’s forehead. He sipped slowly from the bottle.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “I have seen your mother before.”

“Where?” demanded Max.

“I can’t answer that.”

“Where is she now?” demanded Max.

“I can’t say,” said Cooper evenly.

“You don’t know or you can’t say?” said Max, his face growing hot. He jabbed a finger at the Agent. “She’s dead, isn’t she?”

“I don’t believe so,” replied Cooper.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” hissed Max.

There was a sharp knock at the door. Cooper strode over to answer it but Max seized his arm.

“Answer me!”

Cooper’s face darkened and he straightened to his full height. Turning, he gripped Max hard by the shoulders.

“I think she’s alive because her apple hasn’t turned to gold. And that’s all you’ll get from me, do you hear?”

The words struck Max like a physical blow. Cooper released him and went toward the door. Max’s hands began to shake. A tremendous, terrifying surge of energy snapped through his body like a whip.

Breathing deeply, Max shut his eyes for a moment and sought to calm himself.

His mother was alive. His mother had attended Rowan.

Max’s mind flashed back to his memories. He had never seen his mother do anything unusual—nothing to suggest she had any capabilities in Mystics. She had certainly never mentioned Rowan. So many questions. He opened his eyes and saw Dr. Rasmussen standing in the doorway, looking at him curiously.

“Are you ill, boy?” asked the man. “You don’t look well.”

“I’m fine,” croaked Max.

“I trust you’re comfortable here,” said Dr. Rasmussen, glancing at Cooper’s stained clothing with mild amusement. “And I see you’ve already managed a bite,” he added, glimpsing the culinary carnage.

“No,” sighed Cooper. “Just Mum.”

“Ah, the hag,” said Dr. Rasmussen, frowning. “Curious travel companion. If you’re ready, I’ll give you a brief tour of the Workshop. Then we request your company at dinner.”

Minutes later, they had piled into another one of the floating pods and were whisked off on brisk rounds of subterranean wheat fields and orchards and greenhouses, all illuminated by artificial sunlight and manned by robotic, spidery farmhands or actual humans who enjoyed the activity. They glided through monstrous foundries, past coiled energy converters, and beneath shuttered research labs that protruded like rock ledges in the hollowed enormity of an old salt mine. Surfaces were clean, people moved with unhurried efficiency, and everywhere was the low drone of white noise.

“How many people live in the Workshop?” asked Cooper as the pod slowed to permit a team of scientists to cross the way.

“That’s classified, as I’m sure you understand,” replied Dr. Rasmussen.

The pod rose several levels and accelerated forward into a well-lit hall the size of an aircraft hangar. Max fidgeted and glanced at Mum as they passed biological exhibits. Gargantuan skeletons of whales and dinosaurs were suspended in glass cases, their mouths yawning wide to reveal fine-combed baleen or six-inch teeth. While they hovered past tree sloths and octopi and marmosets and water buffalo, Mum’s face was pressed against the pod’s window.

Dr. Rasmussen continued his dry commentary. “. . . of course, many are now extinct, but we have preserved all available genetic material in cryogenic bins located beneath each exhibit. With this we are able to incubate and resuscitate any species whose reappearance is considered desirable. For example—”

“Where’s the hag?” blurted out Mum.

“I beg your pardon?”

“The hag, the hag!” shrieked Mum. “I want to see her.”

“Very well,” said Rasmussen. The pod hummed along toward a vast wing labeled EXOTICS.

This gallery was dim, brightened primarily by the exhibits themselves, whose glass cases were illuminated from within.

“Now this is interesting,” said David, sitting up.

Max gaped at a russet-plumed cockatrice whose petrifying eyes had been removed. A mottled Okinawan hobgoblin glared straight ahead, its sharp-toothed mouth frozen in a mischievous leer. They passed a Baltic ogre and a serpentine naga. David and Max craned their necks to glimpse the shadowed face of an enormous giant clad in heavy skins. It must have been thirty feet tall, with braided black hair, and several eyes sparkled from beneath its craggy brow like semiprecious stones. The giant’s head and limbs were massive and rough-hewn, as though it had crawled out of some bubbling vat of primal clay and cooled before it could be properly shaped. It was the most hideous thing Max had ever seen.

“What is that?” asked David, scuttling to the rear of the pod to get a second glance at its label.

“A Fomorian giant,” replied a disinterested Dr. Rasmussen. “Thoroughly brutish and mercifully extinct. We purchased that specimen from Solas in the sixteenth century.”

Max glanced at Cooper, but the Agent merely stared straight ahead. They had passed several more cases of various giants and ogres and trolls when Miss Boon suddenly exclaimed, “Excuse me, but did that lamia just blink?”

“Ah, Lilith is a great favorite among the schoolchildren,” chuckled Dr. Rasmussen, bringing the pod to a halt. The pod door slid open, and he stood aside to let them out. They stopped at a respectful distance from the ten-foot cube. The lamia’s hooded eyes surveyed them with disdain. It had the porcelain face and torso of a beautiful woman but the lower body of a green-skinned constrictor that moved ever so slowly in a thick series of coils.

“You keep live specimens here?” asked Cooper.

“Certain creatures, yes,” said Dr. Rasmussen defensively. “They’re critical to our research. Without that research, you’d have no Course, my friend.”

“You built the Course?” asked Max.

“Of course we did,” said Dr. Rasmussen proudly. “Not quite cutting-edge anymore, but I daresay it still meets your needs—even those of your top Agents.”

Cooper nodded and stepped closer to the glass. The lamia’s snake trunk now wrapped sinuously around its body. Blood-red lips smiled and parted to reveal triangular white teeth.

“Ever have one escape?” asked Cooper.

Dr. Rasmussen scoffed.

“Never. Our containment chambers are impenetrable. A lamia is a minor consideration. After all, we have afrits and marids and all sorts of diaboli minora similarly imprisoned.”

“You’re joking,” said Miss Boon, looking ashen-faced.

“Not at all,” said Dr. Rasmussen, gesturing toward distant rows of bronze-tinted cases. “Your own Scholars inscribed the original pentacles in the mid-nineteenth century, I believe.”

“Bother all that!” shrieked Mum, flapping her hands impatiently. “Where’s the hag?”

“Two aisles over, three cases down,” muttered Dr. Rasmussen.

Mum galloped away, skidding around a gleaming exhibit of a half-grown chimera.

Moments later, a bloodcurdling wail, like a broken siren, rose to a frenzied pitch before subsiding into pitiful sobs. The group hurried over to find Mum curled into a weeping ball at the base of a brightly lit exhibit. Within the case was a particularly pasty, gap-toothed hag in a floral sundress, toting a large woven handbag. Her features were frozen into an expression of revolted shock and horror. Max glanced at the nameplate: PEDIVORE TERRIBILIS.

“Murderers!” howled Mum. “Oh, my poor Gertie. Cut down in the prime of life.”

“My condolences,” sniffed Dr. Rasmussen.

Mum scrambled to her feet and launched herself at Dr. Rasmussen. Mr. McDaniels intercepted the sputtering, cursing hag. “We’d better take Mum back to our room,” said Miss Boon quietly.

“Another transport is on its way,” said Dr. Rasmussen, tapping a translucent screen on his watch. He flicked an irritated glance at Mum, who now clung to Max’s father like an inconsolable koala. They stood in awkward silence for the next minute until a sleek pod hovered before them.

“I’ll take her,” said Mr. McDaniels, lumbering toward the open door with his sobbing burden.

Mum’s face whipped up from Scott McDaniels’s shoulder. Her face contorted in fury.

“I’m going to get you, Rasmussen,” she hissed, taking a long sniff. “Hags never forget!”

The door slid shut, and the pod reversed smoothly out of the gallery.

“Charming creature,” remarked Dr. Rasmussen, turning on his heel. “Shall we?”

“I hope we don’t see a stuffed lymrill,” whispered Max to David. “Nick would go berserk.”