12
SECRET PRISONS
Max tensed his calves for a moment and scanned the room. A bright green circle appeared on the floor some six feet away. He leapt and landed on it, careful to keep his feet within its boundaries. A heavy ball the size of a cantaloupe whizzed toward his head; he glimpsed it in his peripheral vision and ducked just in time. A smaller green circle appeared off to his right; Max jumped sideways and landed on his tiptoes, deflecting another ball out of the air with a slap of his hand. Instantly, another circle appeared ahead; this one was moving and smaller than a Frisbee. Max sprang forward, landed lightly within the circle on one foot, and promptly pivoted to boot aside the small, hard ball that came rocketing at him from behind.
Once Max had finished the scenario, he wiped the sweat from his brow and went to the door. Mr. Vincenti stood just outside, studying the display.
“Hmmm,” he mused, running a hand over his trim white beard. “I see you’ve scored over a forty on your last six scenarios.”
Max grinned and grabbed the towel that he had left on the doorknob.
“I also see you’re avoiding the strategy-based scenarios,” murmured Mr. Vincenti, scrolling through several screens. “That will have to change.”
“They’re not as fun,” panted Max.
“They’re not as fun? Or you’re not as good at them?” said Mr. Vincenti, raising an eyebrow and clearing the screen. “Come along, Max. I’d like a word.”
Several older students waved good-bye and wished them a happy holiday as Max and Mr. Vincenti walked up the forest path back toward the Manse, making pleasant chitchat. The cold air made Max’s nose tingle. Once they were in the clearing, he thought how different Rowan looked in winter: Old Tom and Maggie under blankets of snow, the dark leafless forest, and the ocean rolling cold and gray. Max glanced at the gunmetal sky that promised more snow and the small white holiday lights twined about the Manse’s hedges and windows.
“How’d your finals go?” asked Mr. Vincenti as they climbed the outer steps.
“Okay, I think,” said Max, waving good-bye to the departing students. Except for David, all of Max’s friends had already gone. “Mystics and math were tough. Strategy was all right, but I think I got the logic sections wrong….”
“How was Etiquette?” asked Mr. Vincenti, leading Max into a little sitting room off the great hall.
“Who knows? That stuff seems kind of stupid.”
“It’s not,” said Mr. Vincenti, shaking his head and gesturing for Max to take a seat. “Oh, I know Sir Wesley can be over the top, but knowing how to act in a given situation is a very valuable skill. You’ll need it if you ever decide to become an Agent—and I’m sure they’ll be clamoring for you to become one someday. Anyway, I asked all the instructors to inform me if one of my advisees was in danger of failing a course. You’re safe for now.”
Mr. Vincenti eased himself into a deep armchair and tapped his fingers against his knee. He seemed uncharacteristically somber and hesitant. Max listened to the small clock on the mantel tick until his advisor finally spoke.
“Max, I don’t entirely know how to say this….”
An icy calm came over Max. He glanced down at his wet shoes. The conversation that informed him of his mother’s disappearance had begun in much the same way.
“What is it?” he murmured. “Please, just say what it is. I already know it’s bad.”
“We don’t believe you should travel home for the holidays,” said Mr. Vincenti with a sigh. “We think it’s best if you stay here at Rowan.”
Max did not speak for several seconds, but simply stared at Mr. Vincenti.
“Why?” he finally asked, trying to control his temper.
“You know why,” said Mr. Vincenti. “We think it could be dangerous. It’s for your own good.”
“What about the others?” snapped Max, standing up. “They get to go home!”
“They are not you,” said Mr. Vincenti gently. “They have not been targeted by the Enemy. The Enemy does not know where they live….”
“Did you make this decision?” asked Max evenly.
“No, Max. This comes straight from the Director—”
Max scowled and bolted from the room. In the foyer, he glared at the luggage piling up near the doors, then thudded down the hallway toward Ms. Richter’s office. His face burning, Max flung the door open.
“How can you keep me here?” he yelled.
Ms. Richter sat at her desk, gazing at him with her hands folded under her chin.
“Please lower your voice and sit down,” she said quietly.
Max stood in the doorway several moments, breathing hard and watching the steam curl from a cup of tea on Ms. Richter’s desk. Snow was falling again outside.
“You can’t keep me here,” Max said at last, managing to smother most of the rage out of his voice.
Ms. Richter’s face looked very tired and downcast. “Please sit down, Max,” she said. “I would like to discuss this with you.”
“Why’d you send Mr. Vincenti, then?” asked Max, his anger rising once again.
“Because I had a very important meeting that could not be moved. Please sit.”
Max glanced at a bit of melting snow on the room’s cream-colored rug; there were shallow footprints in the snow outside the Director’s office.
“Why couldn’t they come by the front door?” he demanded. “What’s so secret?” He nearly yielded to the temptation to tell her that he knew all about the missing Potentials, that she was not nearly as clever as she liked to appear.
“I understand that you are angry,” she said wearily. “If you wish to continue standing and yelling at me, you may do so. Or you may sit and receive answers to your questions.”
Max heard footsteps behind him; Mr. Vincenti stepped into the room, his hands in his pockets.
“I’m sorry, Gabrielle,” he said.
“Oh, it’s all right, Joseph—I understand completely. Please have a seat and perhaps together we can convince Max to hear us.”
Max glowered at the two of them, sitting so calm and composed. Taking a deep breath, he sat on the edge of a chair.
“I have to go see my dad,” he pleaded. “He needs me.”
“I wish you could go home,” said Ms. Richter softly. “That is the truth, Max. It breaks my heart to keep a child from their parent—holidays or otherwise. I regret that we could not tell you sooner, but the fact is that we were exploring options that might have made such a visit possible. I’m sorry to say those options do not exist.”
“I’ll be just fine,” said Max. “You can have an Agent watch my house….”
Ms. Richter shook her head.
“I will speak plainly, Max, so you understand and we can put this matter behind us,” said the Director. Her face was grim and the softness in her voice had evaporated. “We have analyzed and discussed this situation thoroughly. You would not be fine. The Enemy would come for you, and not just ‘Mrs. Millen’ and whoever else was in your house that day. A tremendous allocation of resources would be required to ensure your safety, and I simply cannot spare them at this time. You would endanger yourself, your father, and potentially many others. It is an unpleasant decision I have to make, but I have made it.”
Max listened carefully, weighing every word before he spoke.
“My father would be in danger?” he asked.
“Yes, Max. I am afraid he would be,” said Ms. Richter, her voice gentle once again.
Max bowed his head; when he spoke, his voice was quiet and thick with tears.
“So, I’m a prisoner,” he said. “I can’t even go home!”
“Oh, Max,” said Mr. Vincenti, patting his shoulder. “It won’t be so bad! You’re not the only student spending the break here, and we all celebrate the Yuletide together in the Sanctuary.”
Max ignored Mr. Vincenti and stared instead at a diploma over Ms. Richter’s shoulder. He kept his voice calm and even as he spoke.
“What lie should I tell my father?”
Ms. Richter sighed and placed her palms flat on her desk.
“That you failed your final exam in Mathematics and need to redo several units if you wish to avoid spending the summer here,” she answered.
Max bit the inside of his cheek and nodded. He wanted to shatter the arms of the slender chair as he got up to leave. He paused in the doorway.
“But I’ll be spending the summer here anyway, won’t I?” he asked, staring down the long hallway toward the foyer.
“I hope that will be your decision, Max. Not mine.”
Mum and Bob were in the kitchens dicing vegetables for soup when Max came in to make his phone call. Mum hummed merrily to herself as she worked, but Bob’s somber frown suggested he knew why Max was there. Wiping his hands on his apron, the ogre whispered something to Mum and led her quietly out of the kitchen.
Max’s father answered on the second ring.
“Are you busy right now, Dad? I’m sorry to bug you at the office.”
“No, no, no—I’m glad you called! In fact, your ears must be burning, because Mr. Lukens and I were just talking about you. I mentioned you were coming home from Rowan and he just about dropped his coffee mug!”
“You’re kidding,” said Max, sliding down the wall to slump against a large sack of potatoes.
“Nope,” his father said excitedly. “He was very impressed—said Rowan’s as exclusive as it gets and that he’s got a niece that might be interested in going. Isn’t that great?”
“Super.”
“Oh, and another thing,” said his father, lowering his voice. “He wants to talk to you about it at their Christmas party—only the bigwigs ever get invited to that shindig!”
Max began thumping his head dully against the hard wall behind him; he wished the line would go dead. “Dad, I’ve got some bad news….”
“What is it?” his father asked, the enthusiasm in his voice cooling. “Is everything okay?”
“No,” said Max, dropping his head between his knees. “I bombed my math final—I’m failing Mathematics.”
A relieved laugh burst through the receiver.
“Oh my gosh! You about gave me a heart attack! Is that it? Max, I think I failed algebra twice before it made any sense….”
“No, Dad—you don’t understand. I have to stay here over the break—otherwise I fail the class and have to stay here for summer school.”
There was a long pause at the other end; Max braced himself.
“What?” Scott McDaniels exclaimed. “Are you saying you’re not coming home for Christmas?”
“Yes. I’m so sorry—”
“Put someone from that school on the phone.”
Max flinched as the words spat rapid-fire out of the receiver. Reflexively, he craned his neck to see if any adults were present. He held his breath a moment, telling himself over and over again that he was keeping his father safe.
“There’s nobody here right now, Dad,” he said quietly. “I can have somebody call you.”
“I’ve never even heard of something like this! What kind of nerve does that place have? Keeping a kid away from his family because he can’t do a few word problems!”
There was a long pause before his father’s voice became very calm.
“Max, I want you to pack your things. I’ll be picking you up at the airport as arranged—”
“No, Dad—” Max pleaded.
“I’ll park the car and meet you—”
“Dad, I’m not coming home!” snapped Max, his frustration and guilt boiling over.
“Don’t you want to come home? Max, I’m your father…. I don’t care if you failed every stinking class they’ve got! I’m spending Christmas with my son! The Lukenses have invited us to their holiday party—”
“Oh, well as long as it’s good for business!” Max snapped.
“What are you talking about?” said his father, sounding hurt. “I’ve already put up the stockings and—”
“Did you put up Mom’s stocking?” Max interrupted.
“What?”
“Did you put up Mom’s stocking again?”
“Yes! I put up your mother’s stocking,” snapped his father defensively. “What’s that got to do with—”
“She’s dead, Dad!” Max screamed. “Stop putting up her stocking! Stop putting lipsticks and chocolates and jewelry in that stupid stocking! Mom is DEAD!”
Max heard his own words echo in the cavernous kitchen. Closing his eyes, he curled into a ball as shame consumed him. He braced himself for a torrent of angry words, but instead his father’s voice sounded chillingly calm.
“You are my son, and I love you very much. Pack all your things. I’ll be there to get you by noon tomorrow. You tell that teacher or whoever is keeping you there that I’ll call the police if they try to interfere.”
He heard his father’s phone rattle in its cradle before the line went dead. His mind and feelings numb, Max slowly got to his feet and hung up the phone.
“Whew! Now those were some fireworks!” exclaimed Mum with an excited gleam in her eye. The hag peered from around the corner, where she had nibbled an unpeeled carrot down to a nub. “I thought me and my sis knocked heads, but that takes the cake.”
Max said nothing but walked toward her like a zombie. Her crooked, panting grin wavered as he came closer. Stooping over Mum, Max hugged her tight, ignoring her lumpy back and sweaty blouse and hair that smelled of mop water. The hag stiffened while Max shook and pressed his cheek against her shoulder. Several moments later, Max felt her short, thick arms embrace him.
“Shhh…it’ll be all right, love,” said Mum.
Max lifted his head and looked at the watery red eyes blinking back tears at him.
“You haven’t lost a father, love,” she croaked. “You’ve gained a Mum!”
The hag immediately began pinching Max’s arm and looking urgently around the kitchen.
“We’ve got to feed you—that’s what we’ve got to do! That’s the trick—a full belly to chase the icky blahs away! Three hams and a cabbage and call Mum in the morning!”
The hag squeezed Max’s hand and suddenly darted off to a meat locker, humming contentedly as she began launching hams out the door.
Mr. Vincenti was waiting out in the dining hall when Max emerged.
“My dad says he’s coming to get me tomorrow morning,” said Max, walking past the older man and trudging up the stairs. “He says he’ll call the police if there’s any problem. I’ll let you and Ms. Richter figure that one out…. I’m going to my room and I want to be left alone.”
David was staring up at the stars beyond the glass, scribbling into a notebook, when Max came in and flopped into bed.
“What’s the matter?” asked David. He walked around the balcony, weaving through books and astronomical models on the floor, and took a seat on a small rug next to Max’s bed.
“Everything. Ms. Richter isn’t letting me go home for the break.”
“Why not?” asked David. “Isn’t your dad expecting you?”
Max hesitated. He had promised both Nigel and Ms. Richter that he wouldn’t tell anyone about his encounters with Mrs. Millen. But the image of his father standing before a fireplace with three empty stockings flashed through his head. Max sat up, his eyes flashing with anger.
Over the next hour, he told David everything.
The wonders and horrors spilled out of him like water from a broken faucet; he told of the tapestry and Ronin and Mrs. Millen and the conversation he overheard about missing Potentials and stolen paintings. David said very little while Max talked; he simply hugged his knees and listened intently until Max had finished.
“Well, things make a lot more sense now,” said David finally. “Really big things are happening,” he said simply. “Or about to happen. It’s been written up there for a while.” He pointed up at the small constellations winking in and out of sight. “I’m sorry you’re not going home, but at least I get to have some company over the break.”
Max stared at him.
“Why aren’t you going home?”
David’s face lost its little smile, and he walked downstairs to retrieve a small bundle of letters. Max recognized David’s handwriting on the envelopes. Each was stamped RETURN TO SENDER.
David’s voice was quiet and calm. “My mom moved away.”
“Well, where did she move?” asked Max.
“I don’t know—she didn’t leave a forwarding address.”
Max sat up as David began coughing.
“I knew she would,” continued David when the coughing stopped. “I knew she’d leave once she was sure I’d found another home. It was just the two of us, and she really couldn’t take care of me…. She wasn’t well.”
David wrapped the rubber band back around the letters, and Max stared at the little bundle of envelopes. His own sense of injustice and outrage began to diminish.
“David, I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” said David. “Ms. Richter told me to consider Rowan my home, but she didn’t need to. I already did. I’m sorry you can’t spend Christmas with your dad, but Ms. Richter’s actually right—you’re both probably safer if you stay here until they figure everything out.” He glanced back up at the glass dome. “There’s still some stuff I haven’t figured out, either.”
“Like what?” asked Max, swinging his legs over the bed.
“Everything you told me makes sense based on what I can see. But didn’t Ms. Richter say Astaroth was defeated?”
“Yeah,” said Max uneasily. He stood and glanced up at the glass dome. He saw a moon, white dots, and pretty constellations. But David seemed to read them like a book—a very important book.
“His symbol is all over the place,” David said quietly. “Astaroth might have been defeated, but I don’t think he was destroyed.”
Mr. McDaniels did not arrive at Rowan the next day; no police came to restore Max to his father. Instead, Max received a phone call during which his cheerful father expressed sincere but supportive regret that Max needed to stay at Rowan over the holidays. Max was assured that his presents had been shipped express and that Mr. McDaniels would be thinking of him every minute.
Late that morning, Max ran into Mr. Vincenti in the dining hall; his advisor was finishing a roll and perusing the newspaper. On the front page, Max saw that yet another painting had been stolen.
“Did you speak to your father?” asked Mr. Vincenti.
“Yeah,” said Max, still puzzling over the conversation. “Everything’s fine. What did you do?”
Mr. Vincenti folded the newspaper and sighed.
“We had to influence his memory and feelings a bit.” Seeing Max’s face, he added quickly, “Not his feelings about you—just his perspective about you staying here over the holidays. They were very strong. He loves you very much.”
The strange conversation left Max feeling mixed. On the one hand he was relieved that his father did not seem to remember the awful things Max had said; on the other, it was disturbing that a seemingly minor intervention could alter his father’s memories and attitude. He tried to shake it off, running his hand up the banister wound with mistletoe and holly.
David was upstairs in the foyer, tying his scarf.
“Going to feed Maya,” he said. “Want to come?”
Minutes later, the two were crunching through the snow on their way to the Sanctuary. It had snowed throughout the night, and everything was encased in a glistening white blanket.
The Warming Lodge was very snug in the winter. Sunlight streamed in from windows high along the walls, and the building smelled of fresh hay and sanded wood. Nick was sound asleep, but Maya was not. Like a silver gazelle, she walked in graceful circles around her stall while David ordered a small box of food from the feeding bin. When David opened the door, Maya glided past him and came directly to Max. She rested her smooth silver head against his hip and craned her neck to look up at him with eyes like almonds cast of gold. Max felt his spirits lift; the weariness and sorrow drained away, and he was filled with a sense of peace and well-being.
“What exactly is Maya again?” asked Max, quietly stroking her ears.
“She’s an ulu,” said David, leading Max and Maya toward the door. “Her kind brings quiet and understanding. She might be the last one left, though—they almost went extinct in the nineteenth century all because their skins and horns are beautiful and their blood’s rumored to hold the secret to any language. Collectors and scholars and scientists wanted them.”
Max was incredulous; he could not imagine anyone wanting to hunt or hurt or kill anything so graceful and giving. Maya shivered once as she stepped gingerly out onto the snow, before dipping her head into the little box of fruits and grasses.
When Maya was finished, David and Max took her for a long walk in the Sanctuary, choosing paths that Max had never taken before. They climbed high in the woods, listening to drips of water and the strange calls of many birds. Suddenly, a large drift of snow came spilling down a slope.
Max looked up and caught his breath.
YaYa was sprawled above them, on a bluff overlooking their path. Her black lioness face was matted with blood and steam rose off her body; the hoof of a very large animal was visible beneath her in a trampled bed of pinkish snow. YaYa peered at them, sniffing the crisp air. Max saw his own reflection in her huge pearly eyes as she spoke in her strange voice that sounded of several women.
“Solstice greetings to you, Maya. Greetings, children.”
She dipped the broken horn atop her head in salute.
“Hello, YaYa,” said David. “I was hoping to find you.”
Max glanced at his roommate; David had mentioned nothing to him.
“Were you, child? Let me come down.” The huge ki-rin stood and nuzzled her face clean in the snow before descending the slope. Max stood silent; encountering YaYa in the wild was a far different experience from passing by her as she snored beneath blankets in the Warming Lodge.
“YaYa, was Astaroth destroyed?” asked David.
YaYa stepped forward; her whiskered chin came to a stop right above Max’s head.
“Why do you ask YaYa this?” chimed YaYa’s voices.
“Because you are the Great Matriarch of Rowan. Only you remember Solas in its glory; only you remember the light that rose up against the darkness when Astaroth came.”
The words flowed from David in a lilting cant that made Max feel sleepy. He stood quietly and stroked Maya’s silvery withers.
YaYa crouched and settled her great bulk onto the path. “Did you know you are just like him?” she asked after a long silence. “The words and spirit of my master echo in your young voice.”
“Who was your master?” asked David. “I did not know the Great Matriarch could have one.”
“My master was the light that rose against Astaroth. I was with him when he threw the Enemy down. Elias Bram was my master. I tried to aid him, but the Enemy was too great. My horn broke against the Demon’s side, and I was cast far away before they brought down the high halls and the land was ruined beneath them.”
“But was Astaroth destroyed?” David asked again.
“It is beyond my understanding how to destroy something so aged and evil,” said YaYa quietly. “That is Old Magic and is woven into the heart and roots of this world. I have heard the Demon’s body was found, but I do not know what came of it. When her master fell, YaYa sailed west with the others and left those dark days behind….”
The sounds of bells and laughter came up from the winding path behind them. YaYa turned and padded away farther up the path, disappearing around the bend. David led Maya to the side of the path, just as a bright red sleigh pulled by two great chestnut horses rounded the corner. Nolan was holding the reins, laughing with Mr. Morrow, Miss Boon, and two Sixth Years.
“Hey there, you two!” crowed Nolan. “Been talking to YaYa?”
“How’d you know?” asked David.
Miss Boon leaned forward, studying them very closely as Nolan gestured at the limp hoof and red snow on the bluff above them.
“Been caring for YaYa for almost thirty-five years,” he said. “I can spot her work a mile off.”
Mr. Morrow took a long draw off his pipe and snuggled deeper into the folds of his woolen throw. The tobacco smelled fine and warm among the pine needles and patches of sun.
“We’re a bit cramped for two young First Years and an ulu, but take this, eh?” he said.
Max stepped forward and took a metal thermos from his Humanities instructor. Unscrewing the lid, he smelled hot chocolate.
“Thanks, Mr. Morrow,” said Max, taking a quick sip.
“Not at all, McDaniels,” he growled with a wink. “Happy Solstice to you two, my boys. Songs and treats in the first-floor hall tonight—eight sharp!”
“We’ll be there,” said Max as the sleigh continued on around the bend.
Once it disappeared, David shook his head at Max and coughed.
“No we won’t,” said David. “Tonight we’re figuring out what happened to Astaroth.”
Max heard fiddle music and singing from the great hall even before he opened the Manse’s heavy doors and crept inside. Nick was fed and David would be waiting. Max stole up an old flight of servant stairs while the baritones of Bob and Mr. Morrow rose above the chorus of remaining students and faculty.
The rising of the sun
And the running of the deer,
The playing of the merry organ,
Sweet singing in the choir.
Max met David in the Bacon Library, where he had left the lights off and was working by candlelight, poring through a stack of newspapers and computer printouts.
“Take this list,” he whispered before Max could sit down.
Max glanced down at a piece of notebook paper; there were dozens of book titles listed.
“We need all these?”
David nodded, handing Max a second candle and continuing to jot down notes in his thin, slanting script. Over an hour later, Max grunted as he stacked the last of the heavy books on the table. David was still writing furiously, seemingly unaware that Max was even there. His candle had almost burnt out.
Max sat down to take a breather, perusing some of the spines before him: Great Works of the Nineteenth Century, Art of the Baroque, Secret Techniques of the Old Masters, Dada and Surrealism, The Genius of Rembrandt, Hidden Symbols of Bernini, A Renaissance of Art and Man, Dutch Masters of the Seventeenth Century, The Postmodern Dilemma…
“David,” Max hissed, overwhelmed by the thick books and unfamiliar names. “What are we going to do with all of these?”
David appeared much older by candlelight; he stopped writing a moment to look at Max.
“Astaroth isn’t destroyed,” said David. “I’m sure of it. The Enemy’s looking for him, and it has something to do with the stolen paintings. I think some paintings may have secret clues that lead to Astaroth. But first I’ll need two more books.”
Max rose in anticipation, but David shook his head and said, “They’re not in here. They’re locked up in the Promethean Archives—a secret room below Maggie and Old Tom. I can get them, but I have to go alone. Just take these back to the room and I’ll meet you there.”
Max ignored David’s cryptic comment and watched as David opened his backpack and started putting the books inside. Just as with Nigel’s calfskin case, the books dropped inside without making a sound or dent in the sides.
“Where’d you get that?” asked Max.
“Made it,” said David simply. “I’ll go ahead—meet you back in the room.”
David blew out his remaining candle and left as a chorus of shouts and cheers erupted from the gathering in the great hall two floors below them. Max bagged the remaining books and was about to creep out the library door when his curiosity overwhelmed him. He wondered exactly why David had insisted on visiting the Archives alone.
Max hurried down a long hallway and pressed his face against a window that commanded a fine view of the grounds between the Manse and Old Tom. Sure enough, down to his left and far below, Max saw David waddling like a penguin across the snow, trying hard to stay within the long shadows cast by the bright moon.
Then something moved in Max’s peripheral vision and he caught his breath.
He was not the only one watching David.
A dark figure stalked out from the edge of the woods that bordered the front gate. It stopped and seemed to be watching David, who crouched low and crossed from the shelter of the Manse’s shadows to the snow-topped hedges that lined the walk to Old Tom. Max groaned; David had chosen a terrible route that eliminated the hedge as a source of cover.
The dark figure broke into a loping trot before suddenly accelerating into a blurry streak across the fresh snow. Max smacked the window in panic.
“Run, David,” he whispered. “Run, run, run!”
David did run. He had turned his head in time to see the dark figure closing rapidly on him from several hundred yards away. Max could hardly bear to watch; David was painfully slow!
Suddenly, there was a brief pulse of dim light and David was gone.
The dark figure came to a sudden halt ten feet from where David had been. It crouched and examined the ground, whirling in all directions before it stopped.
“Cooper,” Max breathed, seeing the Agent’s pale features staring up at him from the lawn. The Agent walked several steps toward the Manse, keeping his eyes locked on Max, who stood frozen in the third-floor window.
“McDaniels?” said a sharp voice behind him.
Max yelped and dropped David’s backpack. Scrambling to pick it up, he whirled to find Miss Boon staring at him.
“Oh,” Max croaked. “Hi, Miss Boon.”
“Hello,” said Miss Boon, glancing at David’s backpack. “What are you doing up here in the dark?” She stepped past Max and peered out the window. Max looked out, too. Cooper was gone.
“I just left the library.”
“Hmmm,” she said, turning away from the window to glance again at the backpack. “Well, I’ve got work to do and you’d better get to bed. Good night.”
Miss Boon disappeared down the hallway toward the Bacon Library. Max dashed to his room, where he found David already hard at work at their table, wheezing and rubbing his chest. Many candles were lit around the room.
“I ran into Miss Boon,” panted Max. “She was going to the library.”
David looked up from the two large books spread out before him; he looked anxious. He said nothing but beckoned for Max to put his backpack on a chair.
“What are those?” Max asked, peering at the enormous books. They were easily three feet tall and filled with many pages of thin, cracked paper. There was something very strange about these books; they had an unwholesome aura, and Max did not wish to remain close to them.
“Grimoires,” said David quietly. “They’re kind of dangerous. One is on Old Magic; the other has to do with binding spells and prisons. These aren’t originals—they were copied during the Middle Ages.”
Max stepped away. “Can you read that?” he asked, scanning the strange letters and symbols.
David nodded. “Sumerian,” he said casually as he pulled the art-history books from his backpack. “You can go to bed, Max…. I’m okay.”
Max lay awake in his bed for a long time while David’s scratchy pen and small voice could be heard faintly on the lower level. He watched Andromeda, staring at the grouping of stars and trying to count how long it would be until her outline twinkled with slender golden threads.
When he awoke, he peered over the balcony to see David sprawled across the table below amid a sea of parchment and flickering candle stumps. Hurrying downstairs, Max shook his roommate awake. David yawned and glanced down at a small puddle of drool that had stained one of the grimoires’ pages.
“That’s a shame,” he murmured sleepily.
“David,” said Max, snapping his fingers under David’s nose. “Are you okay?”
David blinked several times. Suddenly, he clutched Max’s arm; his small grip was fierce.
“Max! The stolen paintings aren’t clues to finding Astaroth. They’re Astaroth himself—or at least one of them is!”
David’s face trembled with exhilaration and fear at his discovery.
“Astaroth is imprisoned inside a painting!”