“I won’t pretend to understand teenage girls,” sighed the goose. “I’ve seen over two hundred classes come through this school, and while times change, the teenage girl remains a fickle, mysterious beast. You should find yourself a nice selkie.”

Max smiled as Hannah buffeted him playfully with her wing.

“You’re too young to be heartbroken,” she continued. “That job’s been taken by this gorgeous goose who was left high and dry with twelve mouths to feed! Forget all about her, honey.”

“I’ll try,” sighed Max as Hannah began veering off the path toward her nest on the edge of the orchard. He was reluctant to leave her company. “Do you want to sit on the patio?” he asked hopefully.

“Why?” asked Hannah, her voice becoming shrill. “To fawn over that revolting hag while she spins her lies and stories? Not on your life! That one’s always nosing around the nest and cooing after the goslings. Like I don’t know she’d toss ’em back like popcorn first chance she got!”

The goose waddled off, calling after her children, who came scurrying back to join their mother. Max strolled through the orchard, peering up at row upon row of apple trees, whose golden fruit signified graduates of Rowan who had passed away. More laughter sounded ahead as he emerged from the orchard to find Bellagrog sitting on one of the flagstone patio’s benches, swirling a generous glass of brandy while she entertained some twenty students. Max’s stomach made a funny flip as he spied Julie Teller sitting on a stone bench, flanked by a pair of girlfriends. The smile evaporated from her face the moment she saw Max, and she took a sudden interest in her sandals. Max’s heart sank and he skirted the group, passing Mum, who was briskly sweeping fallen petals into little piles on the flagstones. The hag’s face was curdled with indignation.

“Bel,” she hissed, “I need you to hold the dustpan.”

“Not now, Bea,” rumbled Bellagrog, shooing away her sister. “You’re interrupting me stories—”

Bellagrog cocked an eyebrow and caught Max reaching for the French doors.

“Max!” the hag sang. “Max, Max, handsome Max—pull up a seat or I’ll crack yer back! Bwahahahaha! Was just breakin’ out me stories before supper. Have a seat while Bea fetches her sis another splash of brandy.”

“That’s your fourth!” commented Mum acidly, propping up her broom and scurrying inside.

“When’d she get so clever with numbers?” laughed Bellagrog, gulping down the last amber drop. “Now, Max, plenty of room right next to yer ol’ Auntie Mum.”

Max did his best to smile as he squeezed onto the bench next to the swollen gray hag, who smelled like a nauseating mix of meat and mold. The other students giggled, but Julie looked mortified and merely stared at the ground. Bellagrog patted his knee and took a deep whiff of Max’s upper arm, looking oddly distant as drool pooled behind her lower lip. A moment later, the hag blinked and fumbled for a pouch of tobacco, pinching off an enormous wad and stuffing it in her mouth just as Mum arrived with a crystal decanter.

“That’s it, Bea,” said Bellagrog, holding out her glass. “A little more . . . and a little more . . . and that’s a proper glass!” The hag almost began to purr as she tipped back her drink. “As I was saying,” she continued, “it wasn’t no Sunday shower what made yer Auntie Mum pack her bags and hop the pond. Big things are afoot! Reminds me o’ the summer of ’40, when Nan sniffed trouble and moved us up to Shropshire before the bombs started fallin’. Mum was still in diapers yet!”

“Oh,” cooed a Third Year girl, “I’ll bet you were an adorable baby, Mum!”

Mum blushed and smiled appreciatively.

“Who said anything about a baby?” chortled Bellagrog. “She was a bloody teenager!”

Mum’s lip trembled as the students burst into laughter.

“I never wore diapers in my teens!” she thundered.

“Have it your way, Bea,” said Bellagrog with a wink. “Let’s just call ’em ‘training bloomers’ if it’ll make you happy. . . .”

More howls of laughter sent Mum gathering up her things with frantic gasps and mutters. Max felt a pang of sympathy for Mum as she gave her sister a murderous stare and stormed inside, slamming the French doors shut.

“Always had a thin skin, Bea did,” said Bellagrog with an indulgent smile. “Anyway, it was right pretty country near Shropshire. Plenty to eat, too, with all the men off fighting the war and . . . er . . . leaving their families. . . .”

Bellagrog gave Max a sheepish shrug as her audience began whispering to one another and scooting away. She snapped her fingers to reclaim their attention, leaning forward to continue in a throaty whisper.

“Let’s just say it was easy living for the Shropes, while those hags what stayed near London had an awful hard time of it. The moral of me little tale is that any blubbering fool will go arunnin’ once it rains, but it takes a smart old bird to find a cozy nook soon as the wind goes still and quiet. And it’s quiet in the world, my lovelies—radio ain’t singing me tunes, telephone’s out half the time. Soon, dark nasties will be digging into cellars. . . .”

“Dark nasties . . . like hags?” quipped Connor, poking his head out from the French doors.

This brought a laugh from the group, but none laughed louder than Bellagrog, whose whole body shook with mirth while she wiped a tear from her crocodile eye.

“Aye, nasties like hags,” she allowed with a final, convulsive chuckle. “But other things, too—vyes and hobgoblins and older things much too terrible to mention.”

Max knew the hag reveled in trying to frighten them, but he also saw that there was wisdom and hard experience in her words. Bellagrog was a survivor; it was evident in the way her small red eyes darted about, constantly filtering her environment into threats and opportunities.

“Sorry to interrupt,” said Connor, “but Mr. McDaniels asked me to look for you—they need you in the kitchens.”

“Well,” said Bellagrog, swirling her brandy and downing it in one huge swallow, “it’s nice to be needed, ain’t it? And it’s awful nice to be here snug and cozy with the likes of you while it’s getting dark outside. Stay with me, my wee ones, and we’ll wait it out right here—backs against the wall and brandies in hand!”

With a creak and a snort, the hag eased herself up, followed toward the French doors by the assembled students. Waiting for Julie, Max said her name and tapped her on the shoulder. Without so much as a sideways glance, she breezed past him.

“What is the matter with you?” shouted Max.

Several students turned and gaped at Max. But Julie wasn’t one of them. She walked away, her shoulders as stiff and straight as a church pew. Red-faced, Max opened his mouth and shut it again, turning toward Connor. The Irish boy shrugged and stepped closer, sniffing at Max’s armpit.

“Mystery solved,” he declared.

“Shut up,” said Max, sinking into an antique chair, utterly perplexed.

“You know,” said Connor thoughtfully, “we could TP her room, leave a flaming bag on her doorstep—the possibilities are virtually endless. Of course, there are easier ways. . . .”

Max exhaled and glared at his friend, whose face was now alight with scheming.

“I’ve told you a dozen times,” said Max, “I don’t want to use Mr. Sikes.”

“That’s just ’cause Davie scared you off his services,” said Connor. “He’s really a help.”

“When I need a lemonade, I’ll let you know,” said Max.

“No,” said the Irish boy thoughtfully, “he’s a lot more useful than that. He listens to me.”

“If he’s so great, why don’t you have him make Lucia fall madly in love with you?” said Max, smiling. Connor blinked and shook his head.

“No, no—I mean, if I went whining to Mr. Sikes every time Lucia told me to bugger off, he’d stop answering my calls.”

“He has to answer your calls,” said Max pointedly. “He’s a demon.”

“Well, he can’t make Julie fall in love with you,” Connor said quickly, pausing between chimes as Old Tom sounded six o’clock. “I, er, already asked him about that sort of nonsense. I have something else in mind. A brilliant idea—and I know it will work.”

Max looked at him impatiently.

“Forget all about her,” said Connor.

“That’s it?” asked Max, walking off toward the dining hall. “That’s your brilliant idea? Hannah beat you to it.”

“No,” said Connor, tugging Max to a halt. “I mean really forget about her—wipe her clean from your memory.”

“I don’t want that imp in my head,” said Max.

“Why?” asked Connor. “He only does what you want him to.”

“I don’t know,” said Max.

“Just talk to him,” pleaded Connor. “If you don’t want to do anything, you don’t have to.”

“Okay,” said Max. “Tonight, after dinner. But don’t tell David.”

“Don’t you worry about that,” said Connor happily. “I’m just glad you wised up and are willing to consider his invaluable services. I’ve aced every assignment this year!”

“You use him to cheat?” asked Max, raising his eyebrows.

“Naw,” said Connor. “I wouldn’t call it cheating—he just sort of looks over my shoulder and nudges me in the right direction now and then. I’m doing the work!” added Connor in response to Max’s dubious expression.

The two dashed off to dinner, where David proved to be absent for a seventh consecutive night. Every night for the past week Max had heard his roommate tiptoe back into their room from the Archives in the early morning hours and collapse onto his bed for an hour or two of sleep.

While David was nowhere to be seen, Julie Teller had unfortunately chosen to sit at the next table. Glancing occasionally at her throughout the meal, Max mused sadly that soon she might be nothing but a random face in the hallways.

Max had just caught Connor watching him, the Irish boy chewing thoughtfully on a piece of asparagus, when he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned to see Commander Vilyak standing over him.

“Hello there,” said the Agent with a thin smile. “How are things?”

“Oh, hi,” said Max, standing up to shake his hand. “I mean, fine, sir. Things are fine. Er, Commander Vilyak, this is my friend Connor Lynch.”

Vilyak gave Connor an acknowledging nod as Connor stood and said hello. Max swelled with pride as Julie’s table abruptly halted their conversation to take note of someone as senior as Vilyak stopping to speak with two Second Years.

“Are you from Ireland, Connor?” asked Vilyak.

“Yes, sir,” said Connor. “Dublin.”

“Well met, indeed,” said Vilyak, bowing. “Max, you of all people should know that the Red Branch hails from Ireland—the country holds a special place in my heart.”

“Why should I know that, sir?” asked Max.

“The Red Branch comprised the finest warriors of Ulster. Cúchulain himself was their greatest champion. Miss Boon might say you were born to our Order.” Max frowned at the amused gleam in the man’s flat black eyes. He did not like that his Mystics instructor was sharing her hypothesis that Max might be Cúchulain reborn. “In fact, I thought the young Hound of Rowan might like to see something of particular interest tonight. Something in the Archives.”

“What’s that, sir?” asked Max.

“Ooh!” interrupted Connor. “Are you going to take Max into the Archives?”

“If he has a mind to go,” said Vilyak.

“Can I come, too?”

Vilyak laughed and patted Connor on the arm.

“I admire your enthusiasm, but I’m afraid I’m already bending the rules by taking Max,” said the Agent with a sympathetic smile. “Sorry to disappoint you.”

Connor looked crestfallen.

“What do you say, Max?” asked Vilyak. “Care to see some of Rowan’s secrets?”

Connor practically writhed with jealousy as Max nodded eagerly.

“Connor, I’ll talk to you later about that thing,” said Max as he followed Vilyak out of the dining hall. Max paused to get a last glimpse of Julie and was surprised to see her watching him from her table. He looked away and hurried to keep pace with Vilyak’s long, brisk strides.

Once outside the Manse, they walked along the garden paths toward Old Tom and Maggie, positioned like two great gray stones overlooking the sea.

“So,” said Max, “I heard you used to be Director, before Ms. Richter.”

“That’s true,” said Vilyak. “I was Director for six years, but I’m happy to have all of that behind me.”

“Really?” asked Max. “Why is that?”

“A desk is no place for me,” said the Agent, turning his doll’s eyes on Max. “Out in the field is where I belong—hunting our enemies. As wonderful as Rowan is, it is just a little corner of what we do. Commanding the Red Branch is my true calling.”

Vilyak led Max into Old Tom, climbing the stairwell to the third floor and down to a side passage that housed several seldom-used classrooms. Producing a large key from his pocket, Vilyak unlocked the door to Room 313. Max peered inside and saw nothing but a dusty room with some two dozen desks, several bookcases, and a smudged, swiveling blackboard on a wooden stand.

“After you,” said Vilyak.

“But I thought we were going to the Archives,” said Max.

“This is the way to the Archives,” said Vilyak simply.

Max hesitated, then went inside. Vilyak stepped in after him and promptly locked the door. The man laughed when he saw the suspicious look on Max’s face.

“Don’t be nervous,” laughed Vilyak. “The Archives won’t open unless that door is locked.”

Stepping over to the blackboard, Vilyak placed it flat on the floor and reached for a piece of chalk. Upon its dusty surface, the Agent wrote: By right and necessity, Commander Vilyak requests access to the Archives. Smiling at Max’s curiosity, Vilyak lifted the blackboard away from the floor as though lifting a cellar door. Max leaned closer and saw a dimly lit staircase descending far out of sight.

“Whoa,” said Max, reaching his hand into the space that had seemingly not existed a moment before.

“Follow me,” said Vilyak, stepping down onto the first step. “Don’t worry about the blackboard—the room will rearrange itself.”

“Did we build the Archives?” asked Max, climbing down after Vilyak. Every student was aware of Rowan’s curious origins and how it had been raised several centuries earlier by forces older and stronger than their own. Trails might change or disappear; peculiar will-o’-the-wisps might appear in the woods accompanied by faint and distant laughter. Students were often warned to avoid anything strange, any unexpected occurrence that might suggest a sudden pulse of the Old Magic that had laid the school’s foundations. These events were unpredictable and potentially dangerous, and Max realized many of his classmates viewed him in much the same light.

“No, we did not build this,” answered Vilyak, his voice echoing off gleaming marble walls as they continued steadily down the steps. “The scholars believe that the Archives are actually the oldest part of this school—the very heart of this whole campus. The most important books and relics that could be salvaged from Solas or collected since are stored here. Watch your step as we go—some of the stairs are quite worn.”

Down and farther down went Max until he lost count of the steps. Old Tom could be heard ringing eight o’clock, but the chimes sounded as though they might be miles away. The air was warm with sudden drafts, and the walls were slick with moisture. Max imagined that they were descending into the bowels of a living thing, ancient and strange and riddled with magic. The powerful presence within him began to awaken and stir.

“Well, we’re here at last,” said Vilyak, coming to a halt after the last step, which emptied into a large room of rose-colored marble. Max gasped at the sight of two massive shedu flanking a tall door of shining brass that bore the Rowan seal. The shedu were enormous—fifteen feet tall, with the bodies of colossal bulls and human heads bearing tall crowns of bronze. They might have been statues until one suddenly swiveled its head to focus its blank, unblinking stare upon Max.

“Don’t be afraid,” said Vilyak, taking Max by the elbow and walking him forward. “Is this your first experience with shedu?”

“No, sir,” breathed Max. “One of my classmates has a shedu charge, but he’s a lot smaller than these.”

“Shedu are ideal guardians,” said Vilyak, reaching up to pat the chest of the stony creature that stood aside to let them pass. “They need little food or sleep and are highly resistant to trickery and Mystics. They’ll let you pass since you’re with me, but I’d advise you never to try to enter the Archives on your own. A shedu will not understand.”

“Got it,” said Max, inching past the imposing creatures.

Vilyak pulled the heavy brass door open and stood aside as Max poked his head within.

“Welcome to the Archives, Max. It is the heart of Rowan and the wealth of our people.”

Max stood speechless in the doorway for several moments and gaped at the gargantuan space. Far larger than a cathedral, the Archives stretched out before him in a gleaming array of tables and cases and books—thousands and thousands of books arranged around sweeping balconies that rose up and up in a gentle spiral until Max’s gaze fell upon a lighted fresco depicting the School of Athens hundreds of feet above them. Sturdy vaults with circular doors were set into recessed nooks around the oval room, the walls of which were hung with paintings and tapestries of every color and description. Slump-shouldered scholars sat alone or huddled at tables, poring over ancient-looking books and stacks of parchment as thin as tissue.

Max heard several coughs echo in the cavernous space and grinned to see David sitting small and hunched at a table next to a statue of Aristotle. A mound of books and papers lay next to a steaming coffee mug.

“That’s my roommate,” whispered Max to Vilyak.

“Ah, the famous Mr. Menlo,” said Vilyak, peering with curiosity at David. “Yes, I’ve heard all about him. Go say hello if you like, but hurry back, please. I haven’t much time.”

Max strode into the room, ignoring the curious stares and whispers of the scholars who peered from behind dim lamps and thick spectacles. David’s small, drawn face turned and blinked impatiently when Max tapped him on the shoulder. As he turned, David clumsily tried to palm a slim vial filled with a shimmering silver liquid.

“Max!” David exclaimed, rubbing his eyes. “How did you get down here?”

“Commander Vilyak brought me,” said Max, gesturing at the Agent who stood near the doorway. Max glanced at the food wrappers, coffee mugs, and little pillow on the seat next to David’s. “You moving down here?”

“I might as well,” sighed David. “But it’s been paying off. I’ve discovered something—something very important.”

Max heard a noise behind him and turned to see Vilyak gesturing impatiently at his watch.

“David, I’ve got to run.”

“Come back when you’re finished,” whispered David urgently.

“I’ll try,” said Max over his shoulder, ignoring David’s imploring look while he hurried back to Vilyak.

“How is your friend?” asked Vilyak, guiding Max along the room’s perimeter.

“Er, fine . . . tired, I guess,” replied Max. “He’s been spending a lot of time down here.”

“Doing what, might I ask?” inquired Vilyak, raising an eyebrow.

“Research—Bram’s promise to the witches. Have you heard about it?”

“I have, and rest assured, the two of you aren’t going anywhere,” said Vilyak with steely conviction. “You’re far too important for us to hand you over like some sort of carnival prize. It’s out of the question, and Richter knows it.”

Vilyak patted Max on the shoulder and steered him toward a massive vault whose shining door of black granite was stamped with the same red hand and cord that was branded upon the Agent’s wrist. Max’s fingers twitched, and he gazed long and hard at the door.

Something inside was calling to him.

“What’s in there?” asked Max quietly.

“The tools and treasure of the Red Branch,” answered Vilyak. “All reserved for the exclusive use of our members.” The Agent placed his palm against the great red seal. A moment later there was the muted rumble of stone sliding across stone and the massive door swung open to reveal a rich golden glow within. “Care to see?”

Max nodded and stepped past the Agent into a warm room of pale stone strewn with Persian carpets. The glow was coming from the reflection of several lamps on the scalloped curves, points, and edges of an armory the likes of which Max had never seen. Shirts of smoky nanomail were arranged next to medieval helmets that peered from behind a set of lacquered armor. Max stopped to gaze at a brilliant sword with a golden pommel that lay unsheathed on a red velvet cloth.

“That’s Joyeuse,” said Vilyak, smiling. “The sword of Charlemagne. Some would have you believe it was buried with him or resting in the Louvre, but we know better, eh?”

Max gazed at his reflection mirrored in the blade until something else caught his eye—the same gruesome-looking knife Max had seen only weeks before. It lay on a shirt of coarse woven cloth, its notched, wavy blade covered in what appeared to be dried blood.

“I’ve seen that before,” whispered Max. “Cooper had it with him when David and I were brought to see Dame Mala.”

“The Kris of Mpu Gandring,” said Vilyak. “Indonesian—from the ancient Singhasari kingdom. It has an evil history. I won’t touch it, but Cooper favors that one. It’s failed him only once.” Vilyak gestured to his face, alluding to the scars and burns that had transformed Cooper’s pale features into a waxy mask.

“What happened to him?” asked Max suddenly. “I’ve never had the nerve to ask.”

“I’m sure he’ll tell you the full story someday,” replied Vilyak. “I will say, however, that it’s related to why I brought you here this evening. You see, Max, we have many things in the vault of the Red Branch, but our most precious relic is broken. Cooper tried to fix it, but he failed. I think you might someday succeed. Would you like to see it?”