Seph tried to get comfortable, still unable to believe that he was finally leaving the Havens. “So we're heading for Portland?” He could hardly force the words between his swollen lips. His tongue explored a jagged spot where a tooth had broken off.

She nodded. “It's the fastest way out of Maine. But first we need to find you a doctor.” She looked over at him, biting her lip. “The nearest hospital is probably in Portland.”

Linda's scrutiny made Seph uncomfortable. “I'm all right. Really. It looks worse than it is. I'd rather not have to answer any questions.”

“Seph, I'm so sorry. I had no idea what was going on.” Her voice broke. “And when we received your e-mail, I …”

“Who is Ravenstock?”

“Never mind him. He's no one you're related to.”

He wasn't surprised, somehow, but he was a little disappointed. He erased Ravenstock from his mental file, the place where he kept the clues to who he was. “Weren't you taking a chance in there?”

“I didn't have much choice. I had to hope you looked like someone on the Council.”

“Thank you … for coming … when you did,” he said. “They were going to kill me. Or worse.”

She glanced over at him. “Why?”

“I think he likes it. Hurting people, I mean.” Leicester's threat was fresh in his mind. He wasn't going to say much until he found out who and what she was.

Linda cleared her throat. “I don't really know how much you know … about the magical guilds.” She looked straight ahead, as if embarrassed. As if she were about to deliver “The Talk.”

“I know all about it,” he said, rechecking the rearview mirror for the fifteenth time. “Weir, Anaweir, wizards and spells. If that's what you mean.”

He'd surprised her. “Who told you? Was it Leicester?”

He shook his head. “My foster mother told me a little. The rest, I learned here.” He thought of Jason, and his breath came ragged when he drew it in. He closed his eyes, trying to remember how it had felt when he'd smashed into Leicester. Wishing he'd managed to get off a charm.

“Are you sure you're all right?”

“I'm fine,” Seph said. “Perfect.” He looked sideways at her. “So you're a wizard?”

She shook her head. “No. Enchanter.” She delivered the word quickly, as if unsure of his reaction.

An enchanter! Jason had been fascinated by enchanters, but said he'd never met one. Seph remembered something Jason had said, and before he could think, he had blurted it out. “Is it true an enchanter can bewitch any wizard, no matter how powerful?” Then he clapped his mouth shut. Not a question to be asking someone he'd just met.

“Well. I suppose that depends on the enchanter, and the wizard, and how careful he or she is about being bewitched. Of course, as a general rule, wizards are more powerful than enchanters. But if I come on a wizard unawares …” She let go of the wheel and flexed her fingers like a cat unsheathing its claws.

“But who are you? Do you really work for Sloane's?”

“No. They work for me. What I said in there was true. I'm your guardian.”

Something told him she wasn't being completely honest. It was as if she were translucent, and every so often the light would shine through, illuminating her, revealing shards of the truth, like gold glittering in the sand.

“Did … do you know my parents?” He wasn't sure what tense to use.

“I knew them. Years ago,” she said.

Another lie. He sat up straighter. Linda Downey knew the truth about him, he was sure of it. He would find a way to get it from her, no matter how awful it was.

“If you're my guardian, how come I've never heard of you?”

“I became your guardian after your parents died. I … I travel a lot and I wanted something stable for you. So Genevieve LeClerc agreed to foster you.”

“But who were my parents?” Seph persisted. “What were their names? Where did they live? How did they die? Do I have other family?” It was a cascade of questions, the questions of a lifetime.

She ran her tongue over her lips. “Surely Genevieve told you all that. Your father … was a software engineer. There was a fire.”

“Don't give me that fairy tale. I'm just a made-up person. My birth record is a fake. There is no news story about a fire. No Social Security death records. I'm not stupid.”

“No one ever said you were.” She kept her eyes on the road, as if it would be dangerous to look at him. “The truth is, I can't tell you what you want to know. So don't ask me any more.” Her tone was sharp, her knuckles white against the steering wheel. There was a brief, strained silence. Then she went on.

“I placed you with Genevieve when you were a baby, because I knew she would take good care of you. You liked it there, didn't you?” The question came in a rush, a plea for reassurance.

“I liked it there.” Seph looked out the window. “I loved Genevieve.”

“I guess I haven't done so well the past two years. You see … my nephew was in trouble, and … well … I got distracted. There's been a lot going on. Houghton assured me that you were doing well. Until he called me about the e-mail.” Her voice trailed away.

“Where are we headed, anyway?”

“A town called Trinity. It's in Ohio, on Lake Erie. A college town.”

“Trinity, Ohio.” Jason had mentioned that name. An image surfaced. Barns and silos. From the forest primeval to the Midwestern farm. He tried not to make a face. It hurt to make a face.

Anywhere is better than where I came from, he told himself. Just then he wanted to burrow into the Midwest, to pull the farmland of Ohio over himself like a blanket.

“Why Trinity?” he asked. “Is there another school there?”

“My sister lives there. Plus, it was designated as a sanctuary after the tournament at Raven's Ghyll.”

Right. Jason had said something about a sanctuary, “in Ohio, of all places.”

“Why a sanctuary?”

“There's a lot going on,” she said again, as if that explained anything.

“Are there any wizards in Trinity?” he asked.

She nodded. “Yes, I know of at least two, and there are probably more. Why do you ask?”

“I need more training.”

She nodded. “I suppose your lack of training is my fault. Genevieve was…was wonderful, but not very approving of wizards.” She nodded again, as if confirming some unspoken thought. “Yes, I imagine we can find someone in Trinity to train you.”

“Good.” He leaned back and closed his eyes, but he could still feel the pressure of her gaze.

“If you feel up to it, why don't you tell me what happened at the Havens.”

He kept his eyes closed. “I really don't feel up to it.”

She fell silent. She had secrets, so did he. Gregory Leicester's threat lingered in the back of his mind. It might be that the only person to tell this story to would be the Dragon. Someone powerful enough to put it to use.

Linda Downey had saved his life, and for that he was grateful. If she wanted more than that, she'd have to earn his trust.

Late that evening, Gregory Leicester sat at the end of the dock, leaning against the cold metal of the boatlift. Not even the loveliness of the spring evening could soothe him. He was drinking Courvoisier again, and more than usual.

The boy had made a fool of him. First he'd broken into his office and sent the e-mails. Then he had actually dared to attack him. And he'd walked away with hardly a scratch. Not a good lesson for the alumni who were there to see it.

He consoled himself with the anticipation of the summer to come. There would be a meeting of the Council the next week. He wondered if he could use the information about Ravenstock's bastard to direct his vote on the constitutional issue.

Once the other students were gone, he'd need time to work with the alumni. In truth, he could do without the distraction of trying to break the boy, and then train him. Even with the loss of his two latest prospects, he had fifteen wizards linked to him. That should be plenty, assuming the Dragon and the others could be kept in the dark a little longer.

He swirled the amber liquid in his glass, feeling better. The cell phone at his belt buzzed and he considered ignoring it. But the number had been given only to a chosen few. So he pulled it from its clip. “Leicester.”

It was Claude D'Orsay His voice was tight with excitement, unusual for the reserved Master of the Games. “You have a student by the name of Joseph McCauley.” It wasn't a question.

Joseph McCauley again. “What about him?” Leicester drained his glass.

“I'm coming to Maine tomorrow. Confine him until I arrive.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Do you know who the boy is?”

Oh, that. Leicester snorted. “I heard about it today. He's Jeremy Ravenstock's bastard. Apparently, Ravenstock's trying to keep it a secret. Not very successfully, I'm afraid.”

“Ravenstock? Not unless Ravenstock is the Dragon, which is absurd. We both know the Dragon's true identity. We think the boy's his son.”

For a long moment, Leicester could say nothing at all. “Are you sure?”

“We found his name in some files at the Dragon's hideout in London when we raided it a few months ago. We searched all of our databases, Social Security records, and so on, but it took a while to find him. The boy was born in Canada. The birth certificate is a phony. His parents never existed. Someone has gone to a lot of trouble to hide who he really is.”

It had definitely not been a good day for Gregory Leicester, and now the cognac was no longer working. Joseph McCauley's face was before him again, and he saw the resemblance immediately. It was unmistakable. The imprint of the devil was clearly on his offspring. It confirmed both the father as the Dragon and the son as his blood. “He's gone, Claude,” he whispered, unable to believe it himself.