~7~
SHARPS, FLATS, AND SELKIES

David Menlo would not elaborate upon this revelation. He betrayed no glimmer of emotion as Max peppered him with anxious questions about Mrs. Menlo, her current whereabouts, or her presumed danger among the demons.

The discussion was over.

Showering and dressing, Max made his way out of the dormitories and into a residential wing that housed some of the senior faculty. Cooper’s apartment was located somewhere nearby, but Max had never visited the Agent before. He peered at doors and nameplates until a helpful Mystic pointed him toward a plain wooden door at the end of a narrow hall. When Max knocked on the door, he was happy to hear Cooper’s familiar Cockney accent.

“It’s open.”

Somewhat hesitant, Max entered and saw Cooper sitting at a small writing desk. The Agent’s room was no silken palace—or even Connor’s humble cottage—but rather was the picture of Spartan simplicity. Glancing at the bare walls, Max wondered whether the space had even been configured. In one corner was a bedroll, a bookcase, a desk, and a dented steamer trunk.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, glancing at the bandages wrapped around Cooper’s hand.

“Bit knocked about,” grunted the Agent, smearing a balm over his skinned knuckles. “Grahn’s got quite a grip, but I been through worse.”

“I’m sorry I ran out,” said Max. “It’s just—”

Waving off the apology, Cooper covered his knuckles with a final bandage. Flexing his fingers, he stood. “That’s not why I asked you here,” he said. “Take my seat. I want to show you something.”

Walking over to the trunk, the Agent removed a deck of playing cards and sat cross-legged on the floor. Neatly halving the deck, he began methodically shuffling the cards.

“Do you know how a con works?” Cooper asked.

“What?”

“A con—a confidence game,” replied the Agent, cutting the deck and shuffling faster. “Well, a confidence game is played between sharps and flats. Sharps are predators; flats are prey. Now, most cons have three stages, Max. The first of these stages is called the pledge. The pledge occurs when the sharp gets the flat to buy into the basic premise of the game. The pledge is very important, as it sets the stage for the rest of the con. For example, a card game …”

Cooper’s hands became a blur. He cut the deck again and shuffled, flicking a stream of cards from one hand to the other.

“The second stage,” he continued evenly, “is called the turn. The turn occurs when the sharp permits the flat to glimpse something unexpected. This lures the flat into thinking he’s clever and catching on. Every flat wants to think he’s a sharp; a good con lets him believe it.”

As he spoke, Cooper periodically flashed an ace from among the cards—procuring them as though at will. It was a clever trick, but Max’s quick eyes saw that the Agent always managed to palm them, separating them from the rest of the cards until they were needed.

“I get it; I get it,” said Max wearily. “You’re hiding cards and are going to deal yourself an unbeatable hand.”

“No,” said the Agent. “Not quite. You’re forgetting about the third stage of a con, Max. That third and final stage is called the prestige. The prestige occurs only after the flat’s been duped and is convinced that he’s in on the trick.”

Something tapped Max on the shoulder.

Whirling around, Max saw Cooper’s scarred, impassive face looking down at him. The Agent tapped a sheathed knife once between Max’s disbelieving eyes before placing the weapon on the desk. Stepping past Max, he stooped to examine his illusory double, which continued to shuffle and deal as though nothing had happened. With a sharp snap, Cooper dispelled the illusion.

The thought of being a flat reddened Max’s cheeks.

Cooper merely shrugged. “It’s no fun to be conned,” the Agent acknowledged. “My point was to show you that you ain’t always in on the trick. There’s an old saying in poker: ‘If you can’t spot the sucker, the sucker’s probably you.’ ”

“So you’re calling me a sucker?” growled Max, his temper kindling.

“No, mate,” replied Cooper calmly. “You’re not a sucker, but you’re an impulsive whelp. Let’s take last night—”

“I want to forget all about it,” said Max. “Why didn’t you just finish Grahn when you had the chance?”

Cooper smiled.

“I don’t like getting my nose pulled any more than you do,” replied the Agent. “Neither does the Director, I might add, but last night was not the time to lay our best cards on the table. If the demons think we’re a sorry bunch, so much the better.…”

Max gaped.

“You lost on purpose?”

“Those were my orders,” said Cooper, shrugging. “Truth is, I almost botched it. That Vyndra got me so fired up, I hit his boy with everything I had. Damn near killed ’im, I think. Director would have been mighty displeased if Grahn hadn’t come to.”

“Why wouldn’t you let me in on the plan?” asked Max.

“Because you’re an impulsive whelp,” repeated Cooper. “Personally, I don’t think you could have let yourself lose. And then there are other possibilities.…”

“Like what?”

“Like Vyndra, Max,” replied the Agent. “Grahn was just a brute, but Vyndra’s right dangerous. I think if you’d gone into the ring, Vyndra wouldn’t have left things to Grahn. He’d have had a go at you.”

“So what?” snapped Max. “I’m not afraid of him.”

“Maybe you should be.”

“We’re in the Red Branch,” said Max proudly. “We shouldn’t be afraid of anything.”

Cooper frowned at this and walked to the other end of the room.

“We are in the Red Branch,” he acknowledged. “And that means we sometimes have to go places others cannot. Most times those places are dark and the things in them can be scary. Pretending otherwise doesn’t make one brave, Max. It makes one a fool.”

Max did not reply. His attention drifted to the bookcase where a curious object akin to an ostrich egg sat upon the topmost shelf. Cooper merely watched as Max took up the gleaming oval and rubbed its oily surface. The object was covered in some sort of membrane that slid beneath Max’s fingers.

“Is this an egg?” Max asked, cradling its unexpected weight in both hands.

“Turn it over,” Cooper suggested.

Max did so.

His gaze fell upon an enormous bloodshot eyeball sporting an iris of cobalt blue. Max promptly dropped the gruesome thing. It landed with a surprising crack and rolled to Cooper’s feet. The Agent picked it up and placed it back on its stand within the case, swiveling the iris so that it did not face them.

“Where the heck did that come from?” asked Max.

“Fomorian giant,” muttered Cooper.

“Oh,” said Max. “The one on the Isle of Man?”

“That’s the one,” said Cooper.

“Señor Lorca mentioned him,” said Max quietly. “He said that’s how you …”

“Lost my face,” said Cooper curtly.

“I guess you hurt him pretty bad, too,” said Max.

At this, the Agent actually laughed. “Who knows? Fomorians—or at least this Fomorian—have any number of eyes. My memory’s a little foggy on it all. Half my face was burned … just smoldering scraps, really. I figure it aimed to just bite me in half and end things. But once I got close enough …”

Max winced as the Agent made a savage wrenching motion with his hand.

“What happened?” whispered Max.

“Couldn’t say,” replied Cooper, shrugging. “When Lorca found me, I was unconscious and cradling that eye like my firstborn. Anyway, now I’ve got a souvenir to remind me that it’s okay to be afraid.”

The Agent smiled, but there was unmistakable pain lurking beneath. Max remembered the photos he had seen of Cooper before the incident; William Cooper had been a handsome man.

“Can’t the moomenhovens … you know, heal your wounds?”

“They tried,” replied Cooper. “The Fomorian is Old Magic—old as roots and rocks. His works don’t just go away. Since you seem to know something of the story, I guess you know why I went looking for him.”

“Señor Lorca said it was to have the giant fix Cúchulain’s spear,” Max replied.

“That’s right,” said Cooper. “I, too, was an impulsive whelp.”

“Why?” Max asked. “What was so impulsive about trying to fix the gae bolga?”

“Everything,” replied Cooper, staring at his hands. “I’d just been admitted to the Red Branch. I was taken down to the vault to choose my weapons. Vilyak and the others showed me Cúchulain’s broken spear—told me it was the Red Branch’s greatest treasure. The others couldn’t even touch it; the gae bolga burned their skin or screamed and wrenched itself out of their hands. At first, I couldn’t touch it, either. But I kept trying and found it would let me hold it for a minute or two. The pain would come eventually, but it was all the encouragement I needed. I’d read the stories, Max.… Thought if I fixed that spear, it would make me invincible. I got greedy. And I paid.”

The Agent scowled at the memory. He blinked.

“Anyway, last night’s médim and my scrape with the Fomorian aren’t the only reasons I asked you here. Now that we’ve signed Astaroth’s treaty, our scouting expedition will begin. The Red Branch heads out tomorrow morning. I’m splitting the twelve members into six pairs. You’ll come with me.”

“Where will we be going?” asked Max.

Cooper unrolled an antique hand-drawn map of North America. While the eastern coast was meticulously detailed, the interior was nearly blank. Max’s eyes scoured the document out to its frayed and tattered edges. There were no labels. It was almost as if America had never been discovered.

“Where’s New York?” asked Max, squinting. “And Boston?”

“That’s what we aim to find out,” replied Cooper, tapping the map. “All the modern maps are fading. The scholars have their theories, but no one’s been off campus to test ’em.”

“David’s been off campus,” Max said.

“No one’s been off campus,” repeated the Agent. “We’ve got posts at every exit.”

“My mistake,” said Max said.

“We’ll travel on horseback south along the coast and then west,” he said, returning to the map. “You’re excused from classes and your teaching responsibilities until we return. This is the Director’s highest priority.”

“When do you think we’ll be back?” asked Max, thinking of Julie and his pangs to join his friends during the upcoming school year.

“Two weeks,” mused the Agent, rubbing patches of blond stubble. “Maybe three. Depends on what we find.”

By the time Max left Cooper and the Manse behind, he was feeling better. Despite the brooding presence of Gràvenmuir, the lawns were teeming with people. Determined to adopt his mentor’s resolve, Max ignored the dark spires and instead set a brisk pace toward the Sanctuary, where he knew Julie would be waiting.

An unexpected sight greeted him on the far side of the Sanctuary’s gates. All along the broad border hedge, and extending down toward the lagoon and Warming Lodge, were a host of stakes and pennants. Among these markers, hundreds of humans, domovoi, and even the odd satyr ambled about, measuring distances, tying colored ribbons to various stakes, and consulting with a professorial man with white hair and a neatly trimmed beard. Max hurried over.

“What’s all this, Mr. Vincenti?” asked Max, stepping aside so some huffing domovoi could pass with a wagonload of timbers.

“Max!” exclaimed Mr. Vincenti, shaking his hand warmly. “I’m glad to see you out and about after last night’s … well, all the excitement. Apologies for the mess, but we’re breaking ground on a new township—one inside the gates.”

He unfolded his broadsheets and let Max have a closer look. Scanning the documents, Max saw beautifully rendered drawings of a village with winding, cobbled lanes and quaint little buildings and alleys. Scanning the key, he read aloud: “ ‘Cobbler shops, tanneries, weavers, blacksmiths, dyers, wheelwrights’ … it’s like a whole city!”

“It will be,” said Mr. Vincenti proudly. “As you can imagine, we now need to make everything ourselves using older means and methods. Everyone will be trained in a trade and put to work. Fortunately, we’re salvaging old techniques from books, and many of the Sanctuary residents are a godsend. The dvergar can mold metal like clay.…”

“Why can’t we just replicate modern technologies?” asked Max. “I mean, I realize things like engines and printing presses have disappeared, but can’t we re-create them?”

“You’re lucky you even remember them,” said Mr. Vincenti. “Most of the refugees have already forgotten they ever existed. Even I’m getting foggy on some things.”

“That’s so strange,” Max muttered. “You’ve been an engineer all your life and you can’t remember how things work? I mean, what if you looked at a schematic or something?”

“I’ve tried,” said Mr. Vincenti, shrugging sadly. “No matter how often David’s quills copy the blueprints for industrial technologies, they fade in minutes. By now the originals have all gone blank. Even when I tried to memorize a schematic, I couldn’t retain anything longer than a few seconds. It’s maddening—like a fish darting just out of reach.”

“And that’s all due to Astaroth?” asked Max.

“Astaroth and the Book,” confirmed Mr. Vincenti. “With it, he can reshape the present however he chooses. At least he’s wise enough to leave the past alone.”

“What do you mean?” asked Max. “He’s taken away all those inventions. We’re living in the past.”

“He’s taken them away from us,” said Mr. Vincenti. “But he hasn’t stricken them from the Book entirely. He hasn’t made it so that they never existed. To do that would be to change the course of history, and those consequences are too unpredictable.”

“Is this going to give me a headache?” asked Max. “David once tried to talk to me about time travel and my head hurt for days.”

“I’ll keep it simple,” said Mr. Vincenti, smiling. “Let’s say I possessed the Book and used it to remove certain medicines from human history. I don’t mean just making them vanish from shelves, Max, but eliminating their existence in both past and present. Well, that would fundamentally change the course of history, wouldn’t it? What if my grandparents had only survived childhood due to those medicines? My parents might never have been born, and thus I would never have been born! And if I’d never been born, how could I possess the Book and remove those medicines now?”

“Here comes that headache,” Max moaned.

Mr. Vincenti laughed. “Needless to say, you can see that even a very minor change to the past might result in endless outcomes. I can’t imagine Astaroth would take such risks. After all, if he was foolish enough to alter the past, he might well lose control of the present. No, I think he can exercise all the control he wants by reshaping the present and causing memories of the past to fade.”

“Will people even remember that Astaroth is our enemy?” wondered Max, recalling his conversation with the dryad.

Mr. Vincenti gazed out over the Sanctuary, which was thriving with life, energy, and the combined effort of humans and creatures that had previously tottered on extinction. The man shrugged. “If he leaves us alone, I might be willing to forget on my own.”

The statement disturbed Max. He spied Julie lounging with her friends down by the lagoon and handed the blueprints back to his teacher.

“I’d better be going, Mr. Vincenti. Thanks for the lesson.”

“Have fun,” replied the teacher, turning his attention to a pair of waiting dvergar—slate-skinned dwarfen creatures with white eyes and bronze ringlets in their beards.

Max jogged down the slope toward the lagoon and sneaked up behind Julie, putting his hands over her eyes.

“Guess who?”

“Hmmm,” she mused. “Is it Tweedy? A hagling? No, no … the voice isn’t deep enough. It can’t be Max.… Max McDaniels is far too busy to be hanging out with mere students.”

“Ha-ha,” said Max, flicking her earlobe.

She giggled mischievously. “Come squeeze in,” she said, scooting over so Max could sandwich in between her and several other girls. “You got my note?”

“Yup,” said Max. “I’m really sorry I couldn’t make it to the bonfire, but stuff came up.”

“That’s putting it mildly,” said one of the other girls. “A black castle just sprouted up across from the Manse! Did you see it happen?”

“I did,” said Max softly.

“And you met Lord Prusias?” asked another, closing her book.

Max nodded, curious at the tone in the girl’s voice. She sounded dreamily envious.

“Was he handsome?” she asked.

“He’s a demon,” replied Max coldly, “not some celebrity.”

“Well, I heard he’s handsome,” the girl said defensively. “And wealthy. I read a story about him in last year’s Summoning course. Some people think he was the genius behind the rise of the Medici in Florence. Handsome and smart!”

Max was aghast. “Am I missing something?” he asked, turning to Julie. “Are we seriously discussing how handsome Astaroth’s ambassador is? Please tell me we’re not.”

“Of course not,” said Julie quickly. “But you have to admit that all these changes are kind of exciting. We’re living in a new world, Max! You can’t blame someone for wanting to know what’s happening. There’s a new race … a new royalty that’s being introduced. Who wouldn’t be a little curious?”

“I guess,” said Max. “Well, if you want to know what’s happening, I can tell you that you won’t be reading about Prusias in Summoning anymore. Summoning has been banned.”

“We know,” said Julie, gesturing toward a stack of bound sheaves of parchment. “All Summoning materials have been pulled from the course books.”

“Still,” said the girl, her eyes twinkling, “I’ve heard that Prusias likes to be summoned. You just wade to your waist in water and say his name three times.”

“No,” said another girl, “I heard you drop a coin into a well and whisper some sort of rhyme.”

“I wouldn’t do those things,” cautioned Max. “Even the other demons were scared of Prusias.”

“What’s he like compared to Astaroth?” asked the other. “You’ve met them both, haven’t you?”

Max did not know what to say to this. He was exceedingly annoyed by the question—it seemed to make light of grave matters—but the subject did intrigue him. He remembered his conversation with Astaroth at a crossroads in the far-off Sidh. He envisioned the Demon’s white face, the smooth hair that framed it like black silk … the jesting, merry eyes that seemed perpetually amused. Compared to the imposing swagger of Prusias, Astaroth was almost delicate, effete. And yet Max knew that Astaroth’s shimmering visage was but a mask. Behind those crinkling eyes, Max had glimpsed a terrible, unblinking will—a will that was beyond human understanding and that merely chose to cloak itself in a slender, smiling form.

“Prusias may call himself a lord, but Astaroth really is some kind of royalty,” said Max quietly. “He’s—he’s like a lonely star that has fallen to earth and will burn it all away.…”

“I didn’t know you were a poet,” teased Julie, leaning into him.

“I’m not,” said Max, gazing at a shiny lump of gray rock jutting out of the lagoon. “But I just don’t know how else to describe—What the heck is that?”

The rock had begun to move and was turning a slow, majestic circle about the lagoon, bending the reeds and lifting its head to peer benevolently at the children who now waded into the shallows, clapping and pleading for a ride upon its gray-brown back.

Max gaped.

It was a selkie, nearly the size of a school bus. Blubber was spread generously across its broad frame in great, rippling mounds. The selkie’s carriage was proud, and it cruised about the languid waters like a pleasure yacht. Raising its nose high, it sniffed the air once, twice, and then issued a low baroooooming call that sent two herons flapping away.

“A new selkie,” said Max, standing to watch as the creature coasted toward the lagoon’s farther bank.

“A male selkie,” said Julie.

Max raised his eyebrows.

“I’ve never even heard of a male selkie,” he reflected. “Where are Frigga and Helga?”

“Off somewhere freshening up, probably,” said Julie. “His arrival has sent them into a tizzy. They’ve been fetching His Highness fish all day.”

“His Highness?” asked Max.

“Sir Olaf the Insatiable, Lord of Leisure,” said Julie, rolling her eyes.

“You’re making that up,” said Max.

“I am not,” replied Julie. “And believe me when I say I’ve got it right—Sir Olaf is a stickler for proper address. Either title will suffice, but he prefers them both.”

“Wow,” said Max, kicking off his shoes and sitting down once again. For the next twenty minutes, he deflected a nonstop flurry of questions from Julie and her friends about the previous evening.

Then Old Tom chimed four o’clock and Max groaned.

“I have to go,” he said apologetically. “I have a meeting with Ms. Richter.”

“But you just got here!” said Julie. “And I wanted to show you something. Are you free after dinner?”

“Sure thing,” said Max.

“When does your meeting start?”

“A minute ago!” called Max over his shoulder, waving goodbye and dashing toward the tunnel.

*   *   *

Ms. Richter’s office had changed considerably since the Siege. Gone were the computerized maps and backlit screens that tracked all manner of Agent activity. Gone, too, were the electric lights, air-conditioning vents, and even the gleaming miniature of a Bugatti—a toy from childhood—that had adorned the elegant desk. Instead, light came from many candles, a breeze cooled the room from a crack in the French doors, and the world—what remained of the known world—was mapped on a cream-colored tapestry upon the far wall. Yet all evidence suggested that this was still a room where councils were kept and decisions were made.

Max gathered that one such decision was imminent, as there were four chairs placed before Ms. Richter’s desk and three were occupied. Ms. Richter sat behind her desk, fixing him with a frank expression.

“I’m sorry,” said Max. “I lost track of time.”

The Director motioned for him to sit, and he hurried to fill the empty chair between Dr. Rasmussen and the two scowling hags. Mum patted Max’s hand, but Bellagrog did not even glance up. Instead, she sagged lower in her seat, folding her meaty arms across her chest.

“Please continue with the account of your assault, Dr. Rasmussen,” said Ms. Richter coolly.

“Assault?” spat the engineer scornfully. “It was nothing of the sort. It was murder—attempted murder! As your guest and a representative of the Frankfurt Workshop, I demand justice.”

“Humbug!” protested Bellagrog. “The tipsy drunkard tripped and fell in me broth!”

“Lies!” said Dr. Rasmussen. “Your children … your—your swarming abominations carried me off! They heaved me into that pot and shut the lid on my head!”

“Where’s yer proof, ya silly creature?” demanded Bellagrog, snapping her fat fingers at him. “I won’t have the Shrope family name dragged in the gutter by this lunatic. I won’t have it!”

“Are you insane?” cried Rasmussen, waving his bandaged arms about. “I’m red as a lobster! I’m half-boiled and bandaged! McDaniels was there—he saw everything!”

“Is this true, Max?” asked Ms. Richter evenly. Max turned to look at Mum, who was staring at her floral skirts and fighting tears.

“What would happen to the hags if it was?” asked Max.

“That’s not the issue at present,” replied Ms. Richter. “Can you attest that the hags abducted Dr. Rasmussen and tried to cook him?”

“Of course he can!” shrieked Dr. Rasmussen.

“Be quiet!” snapped Max, glaring at him. “I warned you to keep away from them, didn’t I?”

“Just answer the question, Max,” said Ms. Richter calmly. “Did you see the hags abduct Dr. Rasmussen?”

“Well,” said Max carefully. “Technically, I didn’t see them abduct anybody; I mean, he was already in the pot—”

“That’s true, Director!” interrupted Bellagrog. “Max found that nitwit right after we did! Good thing for the doc that we were all there to save him.…”

Ms. Richter raised an eyebrow and glanced coolly at Bellagrog, who abandoned her tale and returned to her indignant scowl. The Director’s attention shifted back to Max.

“Need we discuss the difference between being forthright and being honest? I expect both and would ask that you abandon the clever semantics. Do you believe that the hags abducted Dr. Rasmussen with intent to eat?”

Seconds ticked off a wall clock. Mum began to sob while Max fidgeted and looked helplessly about the office. With an apologetic glance at Mum, he opened his mouth to speak.

“I demand a trial!” roared Bellagrog.

“Excuse me?” asked Ms. Richter.

“A trial,” hissed the hag, leaning forward. “A trial by our peers. Ya gots to give us one, Director—it says so right in your little rule book!” She thrust a quill-copied tome at the Director.

Rowan Academy: Common Law and Customs.

“I don’t think a formal trial will be necessary,” said Ms. Richter wearily.

“Oh, really?” cackled Bellagrog. “Well, I do! And it says I’m entitled to one right there in Article Three, Section Four—top of the third paragraph! I know my rights, Director, and I’ll be damned if I sit by and let you run roughshod over ’em!”

Ms. Richter rubbed her temples before consulting a calendar on her desk.

“Very well,” she said. “We’ll conduct your trial three weeks from today. Mr. McDaniels will be traveling for some time and cannot appear before then. I presume that is sufficient time to prepare your defense, Bellagrog?”

“Plenty of time, Director, thankee,” replied the hag, apparently mollified.

“This is an outrage,” whispered Rasmussen. “I—I can’t be expected to stay in this magical petting zoo for another minute, much less three weeks.…”

“Then you will forgo your opportunity to testify, and we’ll be obligated to drop the case,” said Ms. Richter.

Bellagrog chuckled with satisfaction and knit her fingers across her broad belly.

Steadying himself, Dr. Rasmussen leaned forward and glared at her. “I demand round-the-clock protection!” he declared.

“Given the circumstances, I think that is a reasonable request,” said Ms. Richter. “We’ll see to your security.”

“That’s defamatory and prejudicial!” roared Bellagrog, smacking Ms. Richter’s desk. “If a bodyguard’s following this fool around, what’s a juror gonna think? Why, they’ll convict the Shrope sisters before we gets our day in court!”

“Bellagrog,” said Ms. Richter, a warning note in her voice. “You have requested a trial and received it. Dr. Rasmussen has requested protection and will receive it. That is fair, and that is all. You are dismissed, and you are suspended from kitchen duties until this matter is settled. That goes for you, too, Mum.”

The smaller hag burst into tears. “But Bob is just easing his way back,” Mum said. “He can’t manage on his own!”

“We’ll see that Bob gets all the help he needs,” said Ms. Richter reassuringly.

Once Bellagrog had slammed the door, Ms. Richter sighed and jotted a note on a piece of stationery. Folding and sealing the note, she let it slip out the window, where it skimmed away as though a bird in flight. Easing Dr. Rasmussen out of his seat, she escorted the beet-red man toward the door.

“It’s best if you return to the healing ward, Jesper,” she said. “That letter was for Agent Eames, who will meet you there. She’ll take good care of you until the trial.”

“But what are her qualifications?” inquired a panicky Dr. Rasmussen. “D-does she have real-world experience with hags?”

“Yes, yes,” said Ms. Richter, easing Dr. Rasmussen out of the room and closing the door firmly. She sighed again, then turned back to Max. “Can I get you anything to drink?” she asked. “Water or lemonade?”

“No,” said Max. “I’m fine, thank you.” He sat in uncomfortable silence as Ms. Richter took her seat only to rearrange the wild-flowers in a vase.

“I’m sorry I disobeyed orders, Director,” Max blurted. “I didn’t mean to do the wrong thing—I only wanted to help Cooper.”

“I know,” she replied quietly.

“Are you angry with me?” he asked.

“How shall I answer that?” she chuckled, and leaned in to sniff the flowers. “Max, put yourself in my shoes. I have just signed a treaty with our conqueror, witnessed the creation of a demonic embassy on our lands, and endeavored to embark on a new Age of Discovery. That keeps me busy. Furthermore, I have a school to run, and Rowan’s facilities must be expanded while we find homes or jobs for thousands of refugees. You might say I’m swamped and reasonably conclude that it tries my patience when I must put everything aside to deal with insubordinate teenagers and legally savvy hags.” She paused and sighed a third time. “I take it that Cooper imparted a valuable lesson earlier today?”

“Yes,” replied Max. “He taught me about sharps and flats.”

“Good. Right now I need scalpels, Max. Not hammers.”

Max nodded.

“But that’s not all I need,” she added. “Max, I would like to know what David Menlo has been doing.”

“I don’t know,” replied Max.

“Max, I’m sure you can appreciate the necessity for full disclosure. I do not delude myself that we can restrict David’s movements or activities, but we should at least collaborate.”

“Can’t you just call him to a meeting?” asked Max.

“He doesn’t answer,” she said, frowning. “He’s withdrawn entirely. What does he do in that room of yours?”

“I don’t know,” said Max. “Honestly, Ms. Richter. David keeps everything a secret—he says he needs it that way.”

The Director sighed, brushing a stray strand of silver hair from her forehead. “That poor soul might jeopardize all my plans,” she muttered.

“What if he’s thinking the same thing about you?” asked Max.

Ms. Richter’s eyes flashed up. “Thank you, Max. That will be all.”

*   *   *

Supper had hardly begun when Julie took Max’s hand and led him from the dining hall. The two stole out of the Manse and across shadowed walkways, where lanterns flickered in the twilight. They laughed and crunched leaves underfoot, hurrying toward the Sanctuary and whatever secret spectacle Julie wished to show him.

Within the Sanctuary, the sky deepened from azure to indigo. Stars twinkled above the looming mountains.

“Let me just see if Nick’s in the Warming Lodge,” said Max. He had not seen the lymrill since the feast and was curious that his charge had not come calling within the Manse.

“He’s not in the Warming Lodge,” said Julie assuredly, looping her arm within his.

“How do you know?” asked Max, scanning the clearing for any sign of Nick peering from behind a rock or among the tall grass. The lymrill loved an ambush.

“Oh … just a hunch.”

Max pestered her with questions, but she refused to answer as they wound their way up into the forested foothills that bordered the broad clearing. Where one path split into several, Julie took the one veering north. Once they’d climbed a few hundred yards, she stopped and peered about.

“I think that’s it,” she said, crossing over to a young sapling. Max saw three thin lines marked in one of the branches, and Julie put a finger to her lips. Taking his hand, she led him off the path and into the resin-scented trees. They arrived at the base of a towering beech whose bark had nearly been stripped and scored away.

Julie leaned close to whisper in Max’s ear. “After the bonfire, I was upset that you didn’t show,” she said. “Camille and I went for a walk, and I saw Nick near that tree I marked. I called to him, but he ignored me. I thought it was weird—he usually comes right over when I call. I decided to follow him—I thought he might be sick. Well, he sniffed the air and paced around, then suddenly bolted up this tree!”

“Is he okay?” asked Max, growing concerned.

“See for yourself,” said Julie, pointing to a thick branch some twenty feet above.

Gazing up, Max spied the faintest hint of sharp, glinting quills among the branches. When Max called, he heard a familiar mewl. There was a stirring in the branches, followed by a sprinkling of bark and discarded rodent tails. Lifting the shutter on her lantern, Julie sent a beam of light up into the tree.

Max gasped as not one but two pairs of eyes were illuminated.

“He’s better than okay,” Julie laughed. “He’s in love!”

For a full minute, Max gazed with quiet pleasure at a sight he thought he’d never see. Next to Nick perched a second lymrill, a silvery female who shone as fine and bright as the moon.