“You can’t,” said Cooper quietly. “The Binding Scroll won’t permit it.”

“There must be a way,” insisted Max.

“You’re to do nothing that endangers you or David,” said Cooper coldly. “Never forget the order I gave you: you are to protect David Menlo and keep him alive at all costs.”

“David and I got the Book,” said Max. “The DarkMatter operation is over.”

Cooper shook his head and pulled his coat closer about him.

“The order stands.”

Old Tom rang the noon chimes, startling a pair of crows into flight. People streamed toward the Manse, where lunch would be served in the dining hall. Max watched them go: parents, grandparents, students, and siblings filing toward the broad stone steps. He glanced hopelessly toward the sea, which was a hazy gray beyond David’s veil where seagulls called like ghosts.

“What are we going to do, Cooper?”

“I don’t know yet,” said the Agent. “I’ll know more when I get my instructions. In the meantime, you’re to do nothing that suggests disloyalty to Vilyak. It could be very dangerous to you and your family.”

“My mother’s here, you know,” said Max. “David and I found her in the Sidh. Actually, she found us.”

“I heard,” said Cooper, his voice softening.

“She said you two used to be sweethearts,” said Max.

“That was a long time ago,” said Cooper quietly.

“I’m going to see her now,” said Max. “Will you come?”

The Agent hesitated, touching his fingertips to the many scars and patches of taut skin that marred his once-handsome face.

“I will.”

“Just now, and very carefully,” replied the Agent. “It’s good to see you again, Scott.”

“Is that William?” called Bryn McDaniels from the bed. Max’s spirits sank at the sound of her voice; it had weakened to little more than a sigh.

“It is,” said Cooper, removing his cap and clutching it between his fingers. He approached tentatively, stopping several feet away.

“Come closer so I can see you,” croaked Mrs. McDaniels, stroking Isis’s sleek coat.

Cooper cleared his throat and kneeled by the bedside.

“There you are,” she said, her eyes searching the ruins of Cooper’s face. “I am so happy to see you, William. I want to thank you for protecting my boys.”

“It was my honor, Deirdre,” said Cooper, letting her touch his scars and the taut patches of shiny skin.

“Long time,” said Bryn McDaniels.

“Twenty-five years,” said Cooper.

“Much longer than that,” said Mrs. McDaniels with a twinkle as she glanced at her frail hands. “Where is my son?”

“I’m here, Mom,” said Max, walking round to take his father’s seat.

“Good,” she said, turning slowly to look at him. “Sit with me for a bit, Max. Your father was reading me my Tennyson before I dozed off like a silly girl. Maybe he’ll read some more?”

“Of course,” said Mr. McDaniels, sitting on the edge of a cot and plucking up a book covered with worn brown leather. He put on his reading glasses and thumbed through the yellowed pages, stopping at a sliver of green ribbon. As he read, his deep, soothing voice conjured images of myrrh thickets and Arabian nights and the sorrowful Lady of Shalott, while Max held his mother’s hand and Cooper kneeled at her side. Peter Varga sat in silence, his fingers knitted atop his cane while the poems wove their magic. Max watched the black gloss of Isis’s fur rise and fall in a steady rhythm while the hour passed, measured in faint ticks by the clock on the mantel.

Max felt a tiny pressure, an infinitesimal squeeze from his mother’s hand as the poem ended. He glanced at her face. Bryn McDaniels lay in tranquil repose, her eyes closed in a gentle smile while she clutched her charge to her breast. Isis had stopped breathing and Max knew, in an instant of agonizing clarity, that both had passed. Removing his mother’s hand from his own, he kissed it and laid it gently on the quilt.

“She’s gone,” he said.

“Hmmm?” asked his father, licking his thumb and turning the page.

“She’s gone, Dad,” said Max.

Cooper stood and made way for Max’s father. Scott McDaniels bent close, gently feeling for her pulse while he smoothed a few stray hairs from her forehead. Carefully sliding Tennyson’s poems beneath her arm, he turned to them. His eyes were filled with tears, but he managed a smile.

“I—I want to thank you for being here at the end,” he stammered. “I’m so happy that my Bryn was able to pass in a soft bed surrounded by people she loved. To even see her again . . . well, it’s more than I’d hoped for these past few years.”

Peter Varga and Cooper stood to pay their respects to Max and his father. Before leaving, Cooper paused in the doorway and looked upon Bryn McDaniels one last time. His eyes flicked to Max and the Agent touched two fingers to his forehead in a farewell salute.

Scott McDaniels hugged his son tight and whispered that Max should go. Max nodded and walked quietly to the door. His father sat heavily at the foot of the bed while the Moomenhovens busied themselves with bandages and bowls of camphor oil.

David was in their room when Max entered, sitting cross-legged on his bed with the Book of Origins.

“That man was just here looking for you,” said David.

“Who?” asked Max, shutting the door.

“Vilyak,” said David. “Where have you been?”

“With my mom,” Max whispered. “She died just now.”

David closed the Book and looked at Max, his small face looking very adult as he studied Max with an expression of concern and sympathy.

“I’m so sorry, Max.”

“Thank you.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” asked David.

“No,” said Max, making his way toward his end of the room, where his sleigh bed was waiting. On the comforter was the folded tapestry that held the shards of Cúchulain’s spear. Max moved it to the foot of the bed and removed Lorca’s shirt of nanomail. Climbing between the sheets, Max pulled the covers to his chin, gazed up at the constellations, and assured himself that one more star now flickered bright among them.

David opened the door and Max could hear him speaking quietly with someone in the hallway. His roommate closed it once again and walked softly to Max’s side of the room.

“It’s Connor and the others,” he said. “They brought you dinner. Should I send them away?”

“No,” said Max, sitting up. He climbed from his bed and padded downstairs to throw on a sweater. Splashing water on his face, he looked hard at himself in the mirror before walking back upstairs to open the door. Connor stood outside with Sarah, Cynthia, and Lucia.

“Hi,” said Max.

“We came as soon as we heard,” said Sarah, hugging Max tightly. The others followed suit and filed in, bringing plates and bags and silverware. Cynthia set the table downstairs while Connor got a fire going.

“How is your father doing?” asked Sarah, wiping a tear away with her palm.

“He’ll be okay,” said Max.

“It is beautiful that you saw her again,” said Lucia decisively.

“It was,” said Max, smiling.

David walked over and returned the necklace that Cynthia had given them before they had stolen Bram’s Key from the Archives.

“Ha!” said Cynthia, kissing the necklace and clasping it around her neck. “I knew I would get this back! And where has she been on her travels?”

“And how long has she been traveling?” asked Sarah thoughtfully, looking at Max, who had gained several inches on the tall Nigerian girl. Max felt self-conscious as their attention turned to him and the fading scars that laced his older-looking features.

“Far away and a long time,” said David, piping up on Max’s behalf. “We might have been there forever if it hadn’t been for Mrs. McDaniels.”

“Is that true?” asked Sarah.

“It is,” said Max quietly. “We never would have found the Book or made it home without her.”

“I suppose Richter’s got it?” asked Connor, glancing quickly at Max. “The precious book that’s got everyone whispering?”

“No,” said David. “She wanted me to keep it safe.”

“You’ve got it here?” asked Connor incredulously.

David nodded and pointed to his bed, where its golden cover could be seen peeking from beneath a fold of his comforter. Connor whistled and shook his head.

“All the world’s dirty little secrets and they’re just a-lyin’ on an unmade bed.”

“There’s nothing dirty about them,” said David defensively. “They’re beautiful.”

“Figure of speech, Davie,” quipped Connor with a wink. “Let’s go eat, eh?”

The boys and girls went downstairs and had supper together by the fire. As they ate, Max and David shared tales of the Sidh with their friends and Max was happy to laugh along with the others at David’s stories from his days in the cobbler’s shop. One involved a customer who apparently suffered from a forgetfulness curse and arrived at the shop each morning, loudly protesting that he’d been swindled, having paid for shoes he never received. The problem, of course, was that he had received them already and was, in fact, wearing them. Connor chuckled between bites of mashed potato.

“And he showed up each day?”

“Every single day,” said David wearily. “He was really punctual, actually. Each morning, the cobbler and I would wager on whether he’d use old insults or invent new ones.”

“And what would you tell ’im when he came in?” asked Connor.

“That we sympathized with his frustration, but certainly the excellent gentleman was in error and had forgotten that he had already taken possession of the shoes for which he had paid. We had a signed receipt to that effect and further proof was on his feet.”

“And what would he say to that?” asked Cynthia, passing a bowl of green beans.

“Oh, he’d start to laugh and ask us if we thought him such a fool as to believe a crafty urchin who was clearly in league with the Evil One, as I have only a left hand, you see. ‘Downright sinister!’ he’d declare, and make the sign against evil. . . . Ooh!” said David, suddenly scanning the goodies the other had brought. “You didn’t happen to bring coffee, did you?”

Sarah produced a thermos with a grin of triumph.

“Ah!” said David, twiddling his fingers with glee as she poured him a cup. “May the sun shine upon your splendid bosom in all eight kingdoms, Sarah lass!”

“David!” cried Cynthia as Sarah’s mouth gaped in shock. David blushed furiously.

“Sorry,” he squeaked. “It’s just my bad translation of an old Sidh expression.”

“Hmmm,” said Sarah, raising an eyebrow and flicking Connor, who practically slid off his chair with laughter.

“Aw, Davie,” said Connor, shaking his head. “We’re gonna miss ya.”

Max glanced sharply at Connor.

“I’m right here, Connor,” said David. “No need to miss me.”

“I meant we have missed you,” corrected Connor, sitting up straight and reaching for a cookie. “It’s a good thing that spell of yours kept us all hidden while you and Max were off in the Sidh,” he said, deftly changing the topic.

“It’ll stay until I dispel it,” said David, happily sipping his coffee. “Even if I’m elsewhere.”

“Must be a complicated bit of work,” said Connor, doodling on a napkin.

“To cast, yes,” said David, “but not to dispel. When the time’s right, I can do away with it with a word.”

“You’re kidding,” said Connor, bringing his distracted scribbles to a halt. “Abracadabra and it all comes crashing down?”

“David,” warned Max, suddenly fearful that his roommate might share the perilous word. Max did not like the drift of Connor’s questions. He longed to tell them of Vilyak’s meeting, but found that the impulse strangely dissipated as soon as he began to open his mouth.

“It’s okay, Max,” said David. “I could write it on the front door and it wouldn’t make any difference. I’m the only one at Rowan these days who can spark that word into action.”

“Still,” said Max, “it’s best to keep it to yourself.”

“Oh, c’mon!” said Connor, laughing as he tore at his thick chestnut curls. “You both know curiosity will drive me batty! You have to tell me, Davie.”

“You’re already batty,” sniffed Lucia.

“Ha!” said Connor, thumping the table. “Could Batty Boy be acing all his classes?”

“Please,” said Cynthia. “We all know the secrets of your success, Connor. There’s no point in pretending otherwise.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” snapped Connor defensively.

“Mr. Sikes,” said Sarah. “We know he’s been helping you with your classes.”

“All right,” said Connor, raising his hands. “I’ll admit I used to summon Mr. Sikes for a bit of help. But I haven’t used him in months.”

The girls crossed their arms and offered disbelieving stares.

“Honest,” said Connor, raising his hand as though to take an oath. “I, Connor Lynch, solemnly swear that I have not summoned Mr. Sikes since last fall. If I’m lying, may lightning strike me where I sit.”

Lucia and Sarah abruptly moved their chairs away from him.

“Very funny,” moped Connor.

There was a knock on the door. David started to get up, but Max waved him off and climbed up the stairs. Standing in the hallway was not Commander Vilyak but Mr. McDaniels.

“Dad,” said Max, standing aside to let him in.

“Are you having a party?” asked his father, hearing the voices down below.

“No,” said Max quickly. “Nothing like that—my friends just brought dinner.”

“Oh,” said Scott McDaniels. “That’s nice. Mind if I pop down and say hello?”

Max shook his head and followed him down the steps to the lower level, where the other children promptly stood and offered their condolences.

“Thank you,” said Max’s father, accepting a hug from Cynthia. “It’s awfully good of you to come and comfort Max.”

“It’s the least we could do,” said Sarah. “Do you need anything?”

“No, Sarah,” he said with a weary smile. “I just came by to tell Max that we’ll be having the service at dawn tomorrow down at the beach. It would be nice if you all could come.”

“We will,” said Cynthia. “Is it okay if I bring my mum and brother?”

“And my parents, too?” asked Lucia. “They arrived last week.”

“We’ll bring everyone if it’s all right with you, Mr. McDaniels,” offered Sarah.

“Of course,” said Mr. McDaniels. “That would be very nice. I’d like to stay, but there’s lots to do.”

“We should be going, too,” said Cynthia, glancing at the others and stacking the plates.

Minutes later they filed out the door with parting hugs and promises to see Max first thing the next morning. Max watched the girls accompany Mr. McDaniels down the hallway. Connor lingered outside the door, waiting until David had gone inside and was out of earshot.

“I’ve got a message from Vilyak,” whispered Connor, his ruddy face becoming deadly serious. “He extends his condolences and wants you to know you’re off the hook. No assignment for you.”

“What is he planning, Connor?” asked Max.

“Wish I knew,” said Connor. “I’m just a messenger boy doing my job.”

“And how did you get to be Vilyak’s messenger boy?”

“Needs a pair of eyes and ears among the students, don’t he?” Connor said with a shrug. “Seems to appreciate my talents even if the girls don’t.”

“Why are you doing this?” asked Max, almost pleading with his friend.

“Everything Vilyak said at that meeting was true and you know it, Max,” said Connor. “The Director might be a fine and dandy peacetime administrator, but she ain’t up to the job right now. My family’s here, too, you know. I’m just glad I can do my part to keep ’em safe.”

Max stared at his friend a moment, searching his face. Connor’s eyes flickered with amused curiosity.

“What?” he asked.

“Who’s here?” asked Max.

“My family, mate,” repeated Connor, blinking. “You lose your hearing in the Sidh?”

“What are their names?” asked Max.

“Excuse me?” asked Connor, coughing into his hand.

“Their names,” said Max, grabbing Connor’s wrist. “Now.”

“Mum, Dad, little Katie, and Uncle Liam,” said Connor, ticking them off on his fingers. “Me mum’s name is Margaret and Dad is Robert.” The Irish boy frowned and jerked his wrist from Max’s grip. “What gives?”

“Since when are you left-handed?” asked Max.

“What are you talking about?”

“You were doodling with your left hand downstairs,” said Max.

“So what?” replied Connor with an exasperated shrug. “Renard said it helps build motor control in the off hand. Jesus, does the Sidh make a boy paranoid, too?”

Max said nothing, but Connor sighed.

“Get some rest, Max,” he said at length. “Tomorrow’s a big day.”

Giving Max a farewell pat on the shoulder, Connor slipped into his own room across the hall.

When the door had closed, Max hurried down the hallway and out of the Manse. His footsteps crunched on the ground as he wound past the steam-belching Smithy and the dark wall of trees lining the way to the Sanctuary.

Nick came at his call, cleaning his short, broad muzzle in the grass and licking his bloodied claws clean. The Sanctuary was nearly empty, just a few distant students carrying lanterns as they visited their charges in the Warming Lodge or cared for the clearing’s nocturnal denizens. The lymrill seemed to sense something was amiss. There was no hiss or reproach or rat innards flung because of Max’s long absence. The creature waddled close and pressed its body against Max’s legs, giving its tail a soft rattle. Max scooped Nick into his arms and strode off toward the very thicket where he had first found the playful lymrill. Climbing high up into the boughs, Max held his heavy charge close and concentrated on a blue face with yellow cat’s eyes.

Nick hissed and squirmed for a better look at Mr. Sikes when the small imp appeared, standing at the bough’s end like an attentive butler.

“Master McDaniels,” purred Mr. Sikes. “I feared you had forgotten all about me. I understand both congratulations and condolences are in order. Please allow me to offer both.”

“That’s not why I called you,” snapped Max, restraining the lymrill, which seemed to regard the imp as an exotic dessert. “Have you possessed Connor Lynch?”

“I beg pardon?” asked the imp, widening its eyes at both the question and the lymrill’s unblinking attention.

“Answer the question,” said Max.

“Of course not, child,” said Mr. Sikes. “My modest kind is hardly capable of such a thing. Any book on summoning will confirm it.”

“Are you working with the Enemy?” asked Max, staring hard at the perplexed face before him.

“No,” replied Mr. Sikes coolly. “I am not. And I would humbly ask that you devote both hands to your charming pet.”

Max clutched Nick closer and ran his hands along the lymrill’s quills to calm it. Momentarily appeased, Nick ceased struggling but continued to eye the imp hungrily, giving periodic snorts.

“Where have you been?” asked Max after a moment’s pause. “Why didn’t you come to Rodrûban with me? I was all alone there.”

“I could not,” explained Mr. Sikes. “That place is wound with many spells—no stowaways permitted. You may rest assured that I tried many times to visit, but I was always found and sent back. They are prejudiced against my kind there, I’m afraid. My troubles are of little consequence, however. The real question is how you are doing, Master McDaniels. It is a terrible thing for a boy to lose someone so dear. . . .”

Max nodded but said nothing. Throughout the night, he sat in the treetops and silently wept while Mr. Sikes’s soothing voice spoke of hope and healing on the eve of his mother’s funeral.

Along the paths they went, their way lit by the gas lamps that still burned bright in the gloom. They walked past Old Tom and Maggie and crossed to the rocky bluff, where they climbed carefully down the carved stone steps that led to the sea. Bob was already present, placing the last of many folding chairs that were arranged in neat rows. The ogre was dressed in an enormous black suit, and his craggy face was downcast as he ambled over to shake their hands.

“Is everything as you would wish?” asked the ogre.

“It is,” said Mr. McDaniels, looking over the seating and fiddling with a paper in his breast pocket. “Was it difficult bringing everything down?”

“Not for Bob,” said the ogre with a gentle smile. He pointed to a stretch of sand near the empty dock where the departed Kestrel had once been moored. There, on the beach, was a slim gray boat. Max saw his mother lying within it, wrapped in white silk, with her arms folded upon her breast.

“Good, good,” said Mr. McDaniels, unfolding his paper and glancing at it. He thrust it at the ogre. “When the time comes, would you read this for me, Bob? I don’t think I’ll be up to it.”

The ogre took the paper and peered at it through his monocle.

“Bob would be honored,” he said, folding the paper and putting it in his shirt pocket.

Max and his father took the seats nearest the little skiff while people arrived, walking down the stone steps in small clusters as Nolan played a plain but beautiful tune on his old, worn fiddle. Hundreds came: faculty and students and families, arriving in silence until they filled the many seats or stood in the cold sand or along the lawns atop the bluff. Max saw Bellagrog and Mum dabbing at their eyes, the pair stuffed into ridiculous dresses of black velvet and green doilies. Hannah waddled down with the goslings, which followed after their mother without so much as a disruptive peep. Max saw Ms. Richter sitting across the way, flanked by Miss Awolowo and Miss Kraken. The Director’s face was grave; her gray eyes stared out at the sea. When the sun rose, a faint yellow haze beyond the thin veil of mist, Nolan brought his playing to a close and Miss Awolowo stood.

She was dressed in beautiful black robes, with clacking necklaces of jet and cowrie shells. With her regal carriage, she walked across the beach to stand by the skiff. While her rich voice carried over the sound of the gulls, Max knitted his hands together and stared at the pale gray boat and the small, lifeless body within it. He was vaguely aware that others spoke, too: Ms. Richter, Miss Kraken, and an elderly teacher whom Max did not know. When Bob stood, Max tore his eyes away from the skiff and watched the ogre carefully unfold the paper. His lumpy features crinkled with concentration; his words rolled in Max’s mind, deep and hopeful.

At the poem’s conclusion, the ogre refolded the paper and handed it to Mr. McDaniels, whose shoulders shook. Bob looked out over the mourners and gestured for all to stand, and Nolan began to fiddle once again. Taking hold of the skiff, Bob slid it into the water. The ogre walked into the ocean up to his waist, guiding the boat through the rolling swells until he gave it a gentle push and it floated out upon the sea. Max watched the skiff go, bobbing like a cork on the gray swells, until it passed beyond Brigit’s Vigil and was lost in the morning mist.

Bob led the mourners away from the beach and back up the stone steps. Max and his father filed out last, while Nolan continued playing behind them on the sand.

As Max climbed, a member of the Red Branch glided past them down the stairs, scarcely pausing to give them a second glance. Max was puzzled and stopped to watch the man’s progress.

A sudden bellow erupted above them, followed by the sound of people screaming.

Leaving his father’s side, Max dashed up the steps just in time to see Bob toppled onto the ground while another member of the Red Branch swiftly bound the struggling ogre. Several nearby people were unconscious, sprawled about the snow like scattered tenpins. Max heard Ms. Richter’s voice call above the din, and he glimpsed her standing next to Cooper.

There was a sudden, terrible blow to the back of Max’s head, and all went black.

“A coup,” croaked his father sadly. “Vilyak says he’s in charge now. Ms. Richter was knocked unconscious, and he stripped a ring from her finger before she was carried away with the others.”

“Who?” asked Max, shutting his eyes.

“Bob,” said Mr. McDaniels, “and Nolan. Awolowo, Kraken, Vincenti, and a bunch of other teachers, too. Cooper tried to help, but I guess Vilyak had been expecting it. Hazel practically went crazy trying to help William, but they got her, too—dragged them all off somewhere.”

“Where?” asked Max, gesturing in frustration when the words were slow in coming.

“I don’t know,” said his father. “Somewhere in the Manse.”

“The Hollows,” whispered Max.

“Yes,” said his father, nodding. “I think I heard one of them saying that.”

Despite the thunderous pounding in his head, Max tried to sit up. His father shook his head and pushed Max back down onto the bed.

“No,” said his father. “You need to lie still, Max.”

“David?” asked Max.

His father’s face fell.

“They got him, too,” he said. “Caught him in some sort of rope that made him go limp as a fish. I don’t think he was hurt, though. I saw Connor taking him back to your room.”

“Oh God,” moaned Max, forcing himself off the pillow. “I’ve got to go—they’re going to surrender David to the witches!”

“You can check on David later,” said his father, trying to ease Max back down.

“There’s no time, Dad,” Max said, forcing himself up from the bed and staggering toward the door. The Moomenhovens tried to bar his way, but Max slipped past them and through the doors.

Staggering down the hallway, Max made his way to the shallow stairwell, clinging to the banister until he arrived in the foyer. Dashing down the hall to Ms. Richter’s office, Max saw members of the Red Branch barring his way. A tall man with steel-gray hair intercepted Max and held him upright on his wobbly legs.

“Let me in,” panted Max, struggling weakly against the iron-strong grip. “I have to talk to Vilyak.”

“Director Vilyak’s busy right now, McDaniels,” said the man. “Sorry about that little tap I gave you earlier. Orders, you know.”

Max glared at the man, who returned his gaze with unflinching calm. Ignoring the pain and dizziness in his head, Max strained and kicked and thrashed against the Agent’s hold until several others had to help restrain him. The door to Ms. Richter’s office swung open; Vilyak’s angry voice filled the hallway.

“What is the meaning of this noise? I specifically ordered . . .”

His voice trailed away as his eyes fell upon Max.

“Agent McDaniels,” he said quietly. “I’m pleased to see you up and about.”

“What are you doing?” seethed Max.

“Serving Rowan’s interests,” replied Vilyak coolly. “Yours and mine and everyone else’s, although you may not yet appreciate it. Come see for yourself.”

At Vilyak’s command, the Agents loosened their hold on Max and marched him into the office. Seated in chairs before Ms. Richter’s desk were two robed figures. The first Max recognized as the witch he had last seen in the company of Astaroth. The second figure was robed in white and hooded, its face hidden behind a black, beaked mask similar to those worn by medieval healers. Astaroth’s symbol was carved into its forehead.

“Greetings, Hound,” said the witch, inclining her head.

“Dame Mako,” breathed Max.

“Indeed,” said Vilyak, seating himself behind Ms. Richter’s desk. “Here also, at my invitation, is Astaroth’s emissary, Lord Aamon.”

The evil that radiated from the white-robed figure was nearly tangible. It bowed its head to acknowledge Max; no eyes could be seen behind the mask. Max felt he was staring into the very same abyss that had confronted him in the Course.

“How can you invite that here?” rasped Max.

“Our business is nearly concluded,” said Vilyak. “And then our guest will go, never to return. Isn’t that so, Lord Aamon?”

“The Book,” whispered the masked figure, raising a gloved finger.

“I’d hoped we’d settled that,” said Vilyak gruffly. “The Book stays here to ensure that you honor our pact. Fair is fair.”

Something that might have been a laugh sounded from behind the mask. The figure leaned forward, its voice little more than a hiss.

“Two choices lie before you. You may give the Book unto Lord Astaroth as a token of your allegiance and be richly rewarded. Or you may spurn my lord’s friendship and our servant will simply deliver the Book himself while Rowan reaps our wrath.” The figure shrugged. “The Book is already ours, Yuri Vilyak. We merely extend you the courtesy of giving it to us.”

“An empty threat,” said Vilyak.

“It’s within our reach even now, fool!” laughed the figure.

A terrible realization dawned upon Max. He wrenched himself free from the others and dashed out of the room. Racing to the foyer, he hurtled up the stairs to the third floor of the boys’ dormitories. He galloped past startled students and adults, skidding finally to a stop before his door and fumbling for his key. Throwing the door open, he stepped inside and nearly screamed.

There, slumped against the foot of his bed, was David. A Passive Fetter had been fitted around his neck, glowing dully, while its other end was fastened to one of the bed’s sturdy wooden legs. A sharp blade was pressed against David’s throat by an assailant who cradled the Book of Origins.

The assailant was Connor Lynch.

“Now, Max,” chided the ruddy-faced boy. “You’re supposed to be sleeping.”