“Dad is here,” he whispered, hugging her close to keep her warm. “You’ll see him soon.”

“I’m so glad,” she said, peering out at the surrounding campus.

Shadows loomed, dark and jagged on the bright snow. Max looked up to see Commander Vilyak and several members of the Red Branch standing before them, looking grim. All were armed.

“You’re back,” muttered Vilyak, shining a lantern upon their faces.

“Yes, sir,” said Max. “We have to get her inside.”

Vilyak paused a moment, scanning the faint scars and taller boy before him. Visibly puzzled but apparently satisfied, he glanced at Mrs. McDaniels. “And who is she?”

“Bryn McDaniels, sir. My mother,” explained Max, helping her to her feet. “She’s a graduate of Rowan.”

Mrs. McDaniels blinked at Commander Vilyak.

“It’s Deirdre Fallow,” she said. Max said nothing but stared at the snow upon hearing the unfamiliar name. Apparently, more surprises were in store.

“Deirdre Fallow?” gasped Commander Vilyak, stepping closer to shine the lantern on her face. “What happened ? Where have you been all these years?”

“A long story,” said Mrs. McDaniels. “And I cannot tell it now—I am so very tired.”

“We’re taking her to the healing ward,” said Max, helping her past the Agents, who readily parted for them. “Please tell Ms. Richter that David needs to see her immediately.”

“Whatever you need to tell Gabrielle, you can tell me,” said Commander Vilyak. “The Director is very busy.”

“I’d rather tell her myself,” said David, coughing into his collar.

“And I’d rather hear it directly from David,” said Ms. Richter, walking smoothly across the snow, wrapped in a white shawl. She acknowledged Commander Vilyak with a nod before stopping to look at Max and his mother. A kind, understanding smile passed over her face as she gazed at Mrs. McDaniels. “Hello, Deirdre,” she said. “This is an unexpected but very pleasant surprise. I did not think we would see you again. I look forward to a long chat when you’ve rested.”

Walking forward, Ms. Richter placed a protective arm around David. Together, the four of them walked past the assembling onlookers and onto the Manse’s broad stone steps.

“Ms. Richter?” asked David while the Director shooed away a trio of gawking First Years. “How long have we been gone?”

“Over three weeks,” replied the Director. “We were beginning to lose hope. I trust you were successful?”

“I’m not sure,” said David, hugging the Book tightly to his chest and following Ms. Richter down the hallway to her office. Max escorted his mother to the ward, pausing every few steps so she could catch her breath.

“No, Dad,” said Max. “I’m here. I’m back.”

Scott McDaniels reached out a hand and cupped Max’s strong chin, his eyes wandering over the faint and fading scars.

“You look different, Max—older.”

“I am older, Dad,” said Max softly. “I’ve been away a lot longer than three weeks.”

“How can that be?” said Mr. McDaniels with a hesitant smile. “Where were you, Max? Where have you been all this time?”

“Far away,” said Max. “Under hills—in a different time. A strange place.”

“I wanted to go with you,” said Scott McDaniels hoarsely. “It’s a terrible thing to watch your boy go off into the unknown.”

“I know, Dad,” said Max. “Let’s step inside. There’s something I need to tell you.”

Inside Scott McDaniels’s room, the two sat on the edge of a rumpled bed that was still warm. Max reached for a framed photograph of his family taken when he was eight. He stared at the image of his mother, confirming that the sleeping woman in the ward was really she. Any remaining doubts fell away and in a quiet, patient voice he explained to his father that his mother had been found and was indeed alive, resting within the Manse. Max’s insides knotted into icy cords as he watched his father’s face flicker and then ignite suddenly into joy.

“There’s something you have to know,” said Max firmly. “Mom’s not how you remember her.”

Mr. McDaniels glanced sharply at him; his smile began to fade.

“What do you mean?” he asked. “Is she hurt?”

“No,” said Max. “She’s not hurt exactly. I don’t know how else to say this, but she’s old now.”

“What are you talking about?” chuckled Mr. McDaniels. “She’s only forty-two!”

“Not anymore,” said Max gently. “Time is different in the Sidh. Only three weeks have passed here since David and I left, but I’ve been gone for a long time. It’s been three years since Mom disappeared, Dad. She’s a very old woman now....”

“I’m going to her,” said Scott McDaniels abruptly, standing up from the bed. Fastening his robe, he walked quickly to a mirror and ran his hand over his stubble. “I don’t want her to see me this way,” he muttered, filling the sink with water and briskly lathering his face with foam.

Rosy-cheeked and freshly shaved, Scott McDaniels put on his best shirt and gave his shoes a second glance before he and Max made their way to the ward. As they walked, Max informed him that Bryn McDaniels had also attended Rowan and that people here knew her as Deirdre Fallow.

“Don’t be ridiculous!” snapped Mr. McDaniels. “Your mother’s maiden name is Bryn Branson Cabot, and she attended St. Mary’s Preparatory School in New Hampshire. I’ve seen her birth certificate and yearbooks, for cryin’ out loud!”

“I’m just telling you what I heard,” said Max. “It’s all a lot for me, too.”

“I know it is,” his father muttered. “I’m sorry.”

Quiet as mice, they crept into the ward where the Moomenhovens had already laid out chairs and a sleeping cot. Max’s mother did not stir. Scott McDaniels stood for a long time, his hands deep in his pockets. He finally eased into a seat to gaze thoughtfully at her tranquil face. There, in the low firelight, the two sat while the Moomenhovens knitted and frost patterned the glass.

“You’re the most beautiful woman in the world,” replied her husband, leaning close to kiss her cheek. She sighed and gave him an amused if disbelieving smile. Reaching out a fragile hand, she clutched his finger.

“I have some explaining to do,” she whispered. “You two must be very angry with me.”

“What happened that day, Bryn?” asked Scott McDaniels. “Why did you go away?”

“I received a visitor,” she murmured. “Someone from a life I thought I had left behind.”

Scott McDaniels nodded slowly, his face grave. One of the Moomenhovens hurried over with hot tea while Max and Mr. McDaniels propped up his mother on some pillows. She took a few tentative sips, and her voice became stronger.

“My visitor was a prescient I had known when I was a student here,” she continued. “He prophesied that my son would someday be lost—lost within the Sidh unless I was there to guide him home. The day was Midsummer and that very night a penumbral eclipse of the moon occurred. It is a most rare occurrence, my loves—a time when a gateway might be found to the Sidh. There was no time to lose! We made our way to Ireland, where he led me to a door on the banks of the river Boyne. For a time, I wavered—aware of the terrible pain I would cause. Dawn approached and the doorway began to fade. I went through. And there I have lived—within the Sidh, waiting for the day I would be needed. I have missed you more than I can say.”

“And who is Deirdre Fallow?” asked Scott McDaniels.

“I was Deirdre Fallow,” explained Mrs. McDaniels. “Until I left Rowan behind and would become your Bryn. Bryn was the life I chose, Scott—a life with you and away from all of this. I found happiness as Bryn McDaniels.”

“So you never attended St. Mary’s?” asked Mr. McDaniels, looking confused.

“No,” she said. “My new life required a new identity. I’m sorry.”

“Did you know William Cooper, Mom?” asked Max, suddenly remembering Cooper’s strange reaction to the photograph.

“Yes,” said his mother, sounding surprised. “He was a year ahead of me. We were sweethearts here, if you can believe it! He was a lovely person—serious, but lovely. They whisked him away to active service after graduation and we fell out of touch.”

“He looked after us, you know,” said Max. “Dad and me and David and the others on our journey.”

“And where is he now?” asked Mrs. McDaniels, smiling. “I’d like to see him again. William could always make me laugh!”

“I don’t know, Mom,” said Max. “We lost him in Germany.”

“Oh,” she said quietly. “I’m so very sorry.”

Throughout this drift in the conversation, Mr. McDaniels remained silent—a rounded block with a forward lean and a contemplative face. He abruptly stood up.

“You must be hungry,” he said. “What can I get you?”

“Oh, I’m not so hungry,” said Mrs. McDaniels. “Old age gobbles up the appetite.”

She chuckled, but Max and his father did not.

“No, no,” said Mr. McDaniels, wringing his hands. “How ’bout Belgian waffles? You used to love ’em and I’ll bet they didn’t have any in the Sheee—or whatever it’s called. You can’t say no to golden-brown waffles with fresh maple syrup!”

“Okay,” said Mrs. McDaniels, smiling. “Breakfast in bed it is. I’ll be spoiled before long!”

“Back in a jiffy,” said Scott McDaniels, kissing her on the forehead. He walked briskly from the room, visibly pleased to be of service. Once he disappeared outside the door, Max’s mother sighed.

“The sweetest soul I’ve ever known,” she whispered. “How I’ve missed him.” She turned a pair of penetrating eyes upon her son. “I know who rules at Rodrubân, Max,” she said at last. “And I gather you now know his relationship to you?”

Max nodded and stared at the quilt’s red stitching.

“It’s awkward to discuss this, but I want you to know that I was never unfaithful to my husband,” she said. “Before you were born, Lugh came to me in my sleep and told me I would give birth to a marvelous boy. The boy would be a son of the Sidh—Céchulain reborn. Of course, I passed it off as a ridiculous dream.” Her eyes brightened. “You were such a beautiful baby! The nurses cooed and my heart nearly burst with pride to have such a fine son. And Scott! He rocked you back and forth while you squeezed his finger so tight it turned blue!”

They laughed together and Max reached for the small, gnarled hand that lay atop the quilt. It was no more than a wedge of bone and gristle and papery skin. He patted the fragile thing as she spoke, aware that she had been weakening appreciably ever since they’d found the Book.

“As you grew older, I knew it was no dream,” she continued. “It pained me to see you suffer so, always wrestling with that monstrous spark within you. You straddle two worlds, Max, mortal and immortal. I could feel the Old Magic growing—burning you from within and biding its time. Do you remember those terrible days?”

“I do,” said Max quietly. “I could never sleep. And the headaches . . . I thought I would die.”

“But you did not,” she said, shaking her head. “You managed as best you could. And now I must ask you to manage one more thing, if you can.”

“Of course,” said Max, leaning forward. His mother’s voice was hushed and urgent.

“Never tell Scott the circumstances behind your birth,” she whispered. “You’re all he has, Max! He has loved you as his son since before you were born. It would do no good to share such a secret.”

Max hastily wiped away a tear.

“I already made up my mind on all of that,” he said, summoning a smile. “My father lives at Rodrubân; my dad lives at Rowan.”

His mother said nothing but squeezed his hand with all the strength she could muster.

“You’re a fine young man,” she whispered.

Several minutes later, Mr. McDaniels returned with a covered tray.

“Voilà!” he said, setting the tray upon the bed. Upon a plate were four steaming waffles, a small pitcher of syrup, and a glass of fresh juice.

“Dear me,” said Mrs. McDaniels, “I might die of shock. These aren’t, er . . .”

“Burnt!” said Scott McDaniels triumphantly. “Yes, I know—I’ve learned a thing or two as well, my dear. Bob’s a heckuva teacher.”

“How is Bob?” inquired Mrs. McDaniels. “I used to chat with him in the kitchens until that awful hag arrived. I can’t imagine she’s still here—tricked a First Year into a cooking pot! Poor thing thought it was all a funny game until he was floating in chicken broth and sliced carrots. Thank god Kraken arrived to put an end to it! Oh, what was her name?”

“Her name is Mum and she can hear you!” bellowed the hag from just beyond the doors.

“I should have said something,” said Mr. McDaniels, cutting his wife’s waffles into small bites. “You have visitors—lots of them, whenever you’re ready. Should I send them away?”

“Absolutely not,” said Mrs. McDaniels. “I’d love to see them—Mum, too!”

In came Bob and a scowling Mum. Following behind were Miss Awolowo, Mr. Vincenti, and Nolan, who held a sleek black bundle in his arms. The Director came last.

“Deirdre Fallow,” exclaimed Nolan, stooping to kiss the top of her head. “When I heard the news I couldn’t believe it! Deirdre Fallow back after all these years and Max’s mother to boot! Who knew?”

Everyone laughed and greeted her in a flurry of careful hugs and well-wishes. Nolan laid the dark bundle upon the quilt. It moved and Max saw it was a cat so black that tinges of midnight blue rippled through its fur. Luminous yellow eyes blinked as it stirred from sleep.

“Isis!” exclaimed Mrs. McDaniels, reaching out a hand to stroke the cat’s fur. “I didn’t know if she . . .”

“Was still kickin’?” asked Nolan with an amused twinkle in his eye. “Yes, indeed. Sleeps most days, though.”

Isis turned her head and sniffed Max’s mother. A deep, contented purring sounded as the cat pawed and patted her way up the quilt, nestling her head beneath Mrs. McDaniels’s chin.

“Isis was my charge, Max,” explained his mother, stroking the cat’s glossy fur. “I wasn’t sure if she was still alive, much less whether she’d remember me.”

“Some things don’t change,” said Nolan, smiling.

“And some things do!” declared Mum, elbowing past Nolan to peer closely at Max’s mother. “I’ll have you know I’m now a reformed hag and utterly indispensable to this establishment!” Mum suddenly abandoned her rant and sniffed casually along Mrs. McDaniels’s wrist. “Yes, yes, I remember you now,” she mumbled to herself. “Skinny girl with black hair; very suspicious—always watching. Should be served with a starchy side. Yes, yes . . . hmmm,” she said, sniffing again. She eyed Max and seized his wrist suddenly, inhaling deeply. “How I never put the two of you together is beyond me!” she exclaimed. “Mother and son, sure as Bel and me are sisters. I ought to have my sniffer examined. . . .”

With a massive hand, Bob gently tugged Mum away, reaching over her head to lay a bundle of roses on the bed.

“Welcome home, Deirdre,” said Bob, patting the covered lump of her foot. “Bob has missed his little Fallow. Or should Bob call you Bryn?”

Mrs. McDaniels glanced at Max and her husband.

“Bryn,” she said decisively. “I am Bryn McDaniels now.”

Max listened in fascination as the visiting faculty pulled up chairs and began to share a history of his mother he had never known. Apparently, she’d been an excellent student—winning Macon’s Quill for academic achievement with offers to join her pick of field offices. As proud as he was, it was strange for Max to imagine his mother walking the same paths, attending the same classes—even having some of the same instructors that he had.

“Has Sir Alistair retired?” she asked, referring to Rowan’s expert on diplomacy and etiquette.

“No,” said Miss Awolowo.

Mrs. McDaniels said nothing but rolled her eyes, to the amusement of all.

The conversation soon turned to questions of the Sidh. According to her account, Mrs. McDaniels had spent a good deal of time wandering about, learning the strange rules, laws, and customs of the place: which rivers were perilous, how to skirt the many marching armies, which kingdoms were to be avoided during certain months and moons. While sharing her stories, she perked up considerably, and Max felt a flutter of hope that perhaps the effects of the Sidh would fade and the accumulated years peel away like layers of paint to reveal the mother he remembered.

A slow, sharp rapping sound snapped his attention back.

Peter Varga stood in the doorway.

He was thinner than when Max had last seen him, but his prescient eye still stared white and ghostly within its dark, lidded socket. The rest of his face was handsome, if sallow. Since the previous spring, he had been spending his days rehabilitating after the dreadful injuries he suffered from Marley Augur. Peter limped into the room, leaning heavily on a sturdy cane and dragging his right foot.

Max bristled at the sight of him.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded, rising to his feet.

Peter glanced at Max’s mother, his eyes wandering over her gray hair and wrinkled skin.

“I came to welcome Deirdre back,” he said quietly.

“Her name is Bryn McDaniels,” said Max, “and she’s my mother and this is all because of you.”

Peter winced at Max’s words. He opened his mouth to say something before shutting it once again.

“Should I go?” he asked finally.

“No,” said Mrs. McDaniels, beckoning him over. “You are not to blame, Peter. Your vision was correct—I was needed in the Sidh.”

“What do you mean, he’s not to blame?” seethed Max. “He’s the reason you’re old! He’s the reason the witches want David! He’s probably the one helping Astaroth to get the Book!”

“Max,” warned Ms. Richter, shaking her head.

“But it’s true,” said Max, stabbing a finger at Peter. “Did David tell you, Director? We have another traitor! Someone with access to the Archives! A traitor planted that letter and talisman so we’d go fetch the Book for Astaroth!”

“Max!” said Ms. Richter, demanding silence with a curt gesture.

Max glanced at each of his parents. Then he shook off Nolan’s restraining hand and dashed toward the exit, letting the doors swing wildly behind him. As he rushed down the hallway, he passed a bewildered Hannah and her goslings as they waddled toward the healing ward.

“Max, honey?” called Hannah, concerned. He did not stop to answer.

“Er, what level do you want?” asked a tall South African boy.

“Nine,” said Max quietly.

“Seriously now,” said the boy with a nervous chuckle. Level Nine was never accessed; the button’s Roman numeral gleamed perfectly crisp and sharp compared to its worn and rounded neighbors.

“Level Nine,” Max repeated, staring at the floor.

“Be my guest,” said the Sixth Year, backing away from the panel.

Max leaned over and pressed the button. A woman’s voice sounded from a speaker above them.

“Voice authorization required.”

“Max McDaniels,” he growled, stepping back to his spot.

“Access granted.”

The elevator rocketed straight down, accelerating to dizzying speeds until it stopped at Level Five. The Sixth Years hurried out, a jumble of whispers and sidelong glances.

“Bye,” said Max, glancing up, but the older students just stared at him until the doors shut once again.

Down and down he went, lost in his thoughts, until the elevator finally came to a halt. When the doors opened, Max found himself staring at a very rumpled-looking analyst. The man coughed and straightened his glasses, patting down his hair in a futile attempt to pretend he had not been sleeping.

“Special Agent McDaniels?” the man said, nodding politely at Max.

“Yeah,” said Max, blinking at the title. He glanced at the red mark on his wrist. “I guess so.”

“I’m Jürgen Mosel,” said the man. “The analyst assigned to Level Nine. I’m honored to finally meet you and I apologize that I’m not more prepared. It’s just that . . . no one ever really comes down here.”

Max glided past him, taking in a small octagonal room furnished with a desk, a computer monitor, and a couch whose cushions betrayed the fading imprint of the disheveled analyst.

“Where’s the programming panel?” asked Max, gazing at the single silver door across from the elevator. There were none of the usual controls.

“Nothing to program,” said Jürgen with a shrug. “Level Nine scenarios are randomly generated—you’re not to have any idea what to expect. I’m told objectives are revealed as you go. Before you enter that chamber, however, I’m required to warn you that—”

Nodding dreamily through the unsettling disclaimers, Max focused instead on the rising tide of energy and emotions within him. When Jürgen had finished, Max opened the door a crack and gazed in silence upon a void. The emptiness before him was almost tangible, endless stretches of numbing blackness. He thrust his hand forward and watched it submerge in the abyss as though he’d plunged it into a tub of ink. Slipping inside, Max closed the door behind him. He felt his body pulled gently but irresistibly away until his fingers slipped from the doorknob and he drifted out into the void.

While Jürgen fiddled with the computer, Vilyak rounded the desk to grip Max’s sweaty, shaking hand.

“We came as soon as we heard,” he gushed. “Sneaking off to Level Nine without so much as an auxiliary? Ha! I knew you were worthy of the Red Branch.”

Raising Max’s brand high in the air for the others to see, Commander Vilyak quickly made introductions. Max tried to remember the nine names—six men, three women—but he was exhausted and mumbled through his hellos. Despite their different races and nationalities, they all shared a common calm demeanor. With one or two exceptions, most appeared to be middle-aged. All had lean, purposeful faces.

“Have you fixed it yet?” called Vilyak to the analyst.

“I don’t think there’s anything to fix, sir,” replied Jürgen.

Vilyak frowned and rounded the desk to peer at the screen.

“Of course there is,” he barked, jabbing a finger at the screen. “Before I could see, now I can’t!”

“I understand, sir,” said Jürgen. “But nothing indicates any sort of malfunction. What you see—or don’t see—is what actually occurred in the scenario.”

Max walked over and peered at the screen while Vilyak scrolled back impatiently. There was Max, in the center of a circular chamber. Within the scenario, he was blindfolded and his right arm had been bound behind him. He clutched a thick wooden baton while his final adversaries surrounded him. There were no monstrous or supernatural enemies in this scenario—Max’s opponents were the other members of the Red Branch, including Cooper. Vilyak slowed the images to a crawl as the assailants closed like a noose.

Max blinked at the scene; even in slow motion, his image skipped across the screen. Knives flashed, but the baton smoothly parried them and then swung in a blur, cracking against ribs, knees, knuckles, and cheekbones with appalling accuracy. Weapons were knocked away and opponents crushed down to the floor, where they scrambled away to regroup and attack again. In the midst of all the activity was Max, a beautiful, harmonious whirl of motion and feints as he sensed his opponents’ positions and anticipated their every move.

As the fight raged on, however, he had begun to tire. Max winced as he saw the replay of Cooper’s pommel crashing into the base of his neck. In the split second that his legs buckled, the others were upon him. As he was being borne to the ground, the image was suddenly lost in a flash of white light. Text appeared on the screen:

“Er . . . I beg your pardon, sir,” said Jürgen, calling up another screen and directing the Commander’s attention to the readout. “But Max is the only one who survived.”

Vilyak blinked and read the report, his eyes darting rapidly across the screen.

“Extraordinary,” he muttered, rewinding the recording to study the lethal patterns and arcs of Max’s movements. “What style is that you’re using? It’s not ours.”

“It doesn’t have a name,” said Max. Scathach had no use for such things.

“And what happened here?” Vilyak asked as the moment arrived when the screen went white.

“I don’t remember,” said Max truthfully.

Vilyak glanced sharply at him, his black eyes disbelieving.

“Well,” he said, sighing and tapping the blank screen, “perhaps in time you’ll share your secrets, eh? But we have not come solely to applaud your performance, Max. There is an important meeting you must attend. They are waiting for us to begin now.”

“Agreed,” said the other participants. Max watched a long cream-colored scroll snake its way swiftly through the crowd, passed from hand to hand as each attendee signed under the watchful gaze of the Red Branch. When the scroll came to Max, he hesitated a moment, wondering what sort of meeting could possibly require such secrecy. He glanced about for the faculty he knew well; none were in attendance. The supervising Agent placed the pen in his hand and gazed at him impassively. Max was about to sign when there was a knock on the door.

“It is the boy,” said Vilyak. “Let him in.”

Another Red Branch member strode to the door and opened it. Max could not see who was there, but heard an exclamation of surprise—of joy even. The attendees leaned forward to glimpse whoever had arrived. Footsteps sounded. Max gaped as Connor Lynch strode confidently into the room, giving a jaunty salute to Vilyak before taking a seat on the first bench.

Another figure walked into the room, accompanied by the Red Branch Agent.

It was Cooper.

Max scribbled his name and passed the scroll to the next person as Cooper walked forward and exchanged quiet words with Vilyak, who embraced him like a son. Making his way through the attendees, Cooper took a moment to scrawl his name on the scroll before taking a seat next to Max. The Agent turned his ruined face to look full upon him. Many scars, some very fresh, twisted into the hint of a smile.

“Cooper!” Max whispered, beaming. He was bursting with a hundred questions.

The Agent patted Max on the shoulder and put a finger to his lips as Vilyak began to speak.

“Well, this is a most auspicious beginning,” said Vilyak, rolling up the scroll once the signatures were complete. His gaze flitted from face to face; his authoritative voice filled the lecture hall.

“I will speak plainly—I know no other way. I’ve asked each of you here to discuss the current crisis of leadership that plagues Rowan and is driving her toward ruin. While we all acknowledge that Gabrielle Richter is a fine woman with many excellent qualities, the fact remains that her policies and decisions as Director have thrust us to the brink of catastrophe. Since her mishandling of the witches, we operate under threat of a curse, have driven the witches to Astaroth’s camp, abandoned the field offices, and failed the Workshop in their hour of need. We now stand alone—a crippled, hidden harbor for refugees—while all outside falls under Astaroth’s sway. The one bit of recent hope is the acquisition of the Book of Origins, achieved through the heroic efforts of Agent McDaniels, who has replaced Antonio de Lorca among the Red Branch. With the addition of this bargaining chip, a moment of truth has arrived when those who love Rowan must act on her behalf. You are here because I know you to be patriots who recognize that our first loyalty must be to Rowan and not to any one individual. It is time for decisive action.”

“Hear, hear,” called several people.

An elderly Mystic raised her voice. “What do you have in mind?” she asked.

“Three things,” replied Commander Vilyak. “The first and most immediate is the deposal of Gabrielle Richter as Director. We do not have time for the ordinary protocols, and thus I propose that the Founder’s Ring be taken by whatever means necessary and that she be confined to the Hollows forthwith.”

“That’s treason!” gasped an elderly woman who taught in the Languages department.

Max glanced in shock at Cooper, but the Agent merely stared stonily ahead.

“Second,” continued Vilyak, barreling through the woman’s protests, which continued until her neighbors hushed her, “that I take possession of the Founder’s Ring and resume leadership as Director, invested with all necessary authority to command and negotiate on Rowan’s behalf.

“And finally,” he concluded, “that we meet with the witches, the Workshop, and Astaroth’s emissaries to negotiate an agreement that is satisfactory to all. Even before we had the Book in our possession, I have been assured that our proposal would meet with a favorable reception.”

Max leaned forward to glimpse Rasmussen, who sat with his hands folded on his lap, nodding as Vilyak spoke. One of the other Agents, a bearded Scot with a fringe of red hair, spoke up.

“And what is this proposal?”

“It is simple,” said Vilyak. “In exchange for its allegiance, Rowan shall be left alone, free to administer its own domain without interference from Astaroth. This domain will comprise all of New England and New York State. We will accept refugees from other regions as our capacity allows, giving strict preference to those with needed skills. Current inhabitants who do not meet our requirements will be deported.”

“Deported where, exactly?” asked the Languages instructor.

“That is not yet determined,” said Vilyak coolly, registering the questioner with a glance. “Rest assured, they will be looked after. Where was I? Oh yes—Jesper Rasmussen is to be reinstated in charge of the Frankfurt Workshop, and together we will pursue a policy of closer cooperation. Meanwhile, we will eliminate the threat of a curse by placating the witches and honoring a portion of their old agreement with Elias Bram. David Menlo will be given unto them, as he should have been last autumn.”

Max had opened his mouth to protest when he felt Cooper’s hard fingers dig into his hand. The Agent’s jaw tightened and he gave a barely imperceptible shake of his head; Max was to keep silent.

“And what of the Book?” asked an anxious scholar.

“The Book will stay with Rowan,” said Vilyak proudly. “The threat of its power will ensure that Astaroth honors our agreement. Its secrets will help us to rebuild our strength; we will not only persevere but, in time, achieve the might and glory of our forebears.”

“Negotiating with Astaroth?” muttered a willowy Mystic. “This sounds like surrender! It goes against everything we stand for!”

“What we stand for, Miss Chen, is the continued survival of the human race,” said Vilyak, tapping his finger against the lectern. “I am ensuring that survival. And I take issue with your use of the term surrender. Those who surrender neither expand their territory nor dictate the terms of their peace and autonomous rule. That is what I intend to do. Perhaps you would prefer that we continue with this foolish charade of fractured resistance until we have squandered all basis for meaningful negotiations? Is this what you are proposing, Miss Chen?”

The woman shook her head and glanced meekly at those around her. Vilyak sighed and rested his hands on the lectern.

“My friends, I do not pretend that we would choose this unhappy course of events. But each of us has been taught that effective decision making requires an objective assessment of the situation. This is not the time for heroic stands or idealistic posturing; this is a time for survival. I urge you to consider carefully what I have said. I require your answer by tomorrow morning.”

An ancient-looking Mystic in navy robes spoke up.

“It seems to me that a very important detail is missing from your proposal,” he said. “How do you intend to depose the Director? She is most formidable and has the support of many.”

Commander Vilyak smiled at the question.

“Leave that to the Red Branch.”