13
FIBS AND A FIDDLE
The ogre walked ahead, carrying a lantern in the twilight and stopping periodically to wait as Max, David, and Connor hurried to match his long strides. Snow was falling, and the sky was darkening to slate.
The door to the Sanctuary was open. A number of students and charges had crowded near the porch of the Warming Lodge, where a bonfire blazed in a large circle cleared of snow. Nolan sat on an upturned crate on the porch, cradling a fiddle and surrounded by students sipping from mugs and thermoses. Max saw a cloud of steam billow from the Lodge’s doorway and caught a glimpse of YaYa’s eyes glowing white from the shadows.
“Bob!” exclaimed Nolan. “We don’t get to see you too often out here. What’s the occasion?”
“Afternoon,” said Bob with a nod. “Bob takes young ones across the dunes to see Mr. Morrow. The house is far and little ones know not the way.”
“Ah,” said Nolan. “Well, Byron sure will appreciate that. I hope he’s on the mend—he’s been sick for weeks now! Give him my best and get on back to have some hot chocolate when you’re through. I’ll be taking requests a bit longer.”
Bob nodded and skirted the bonfire, leaving the Warming Lodge behind. Max picked his way among the seated students, waving at Cynthia and Lucia, who huddled together. On Lucia’s lap, swaddled in a shaggy blanket, was Kettlemouth, who blinked his bulbous eyes and wriggled his red skin in a full-body shiver.
To Max’s surprise, Julie Teller turned around to beam at him, the firelight dancing upon her pretty blue eyes and faded freckles.
“Hi,” she said with a smile. “Haven’t seen much of you since the break, and here we are in February!”
“Oh, I’ve been trying to study more this semester,” Max said, fiddling with a zipper on his coat. He was thankful that Sarah was not there. It had taken two weeks for Sarah to speak to him after Halloween, and while they had resumed their friendship, she became sullen whenever she saw Julie speak to Max.
“Well, let me know if you need any help,” she said. “Anything but Languages. I’m hopeless at them!”
Max merely reddened and nodded mutely, ignoring Connor’s exasperated face. A quick, cheery tune got a number of students clapping, and Julie turned to watch Nolan, whose fingers and bow danced on the fiddle strings. Connor and Max hurried after Bob and David just as Tweedy began to correct Omar’s mistimed attempts to clap along.
“Hey, wait up!” a voice called from behind them.
Max turned to see Cynthia stepping carefully through the snow. She was pulling on her mittens with her teeth by the time she reached them.
“I want to go see Mr. Morrow, too,” she said. “Been meaning to before, but, you know.”
They ran to catch up with Bob’s lantern as it bobbed up ahead. When they reached the edge of the sand mounds, Bob and David were waiting for them. The ogre’s coat shielded David from sudden blasts of gritty snow. Cupping his hands over his ears, Max struggled to hear Bob over the wind’s howl as they resumed walking.
“Stay close to me, little ones,” he cautioned.
What appeared to be little ripples in the distance were in fact towering dunes some fifteen or twenty feet high. Max and the others panted as they clambered up one face and slid down the other side. Thirty minutes seemed like hours; even Bob had to stop and catch his breath from time to time.
“Why does Morrow live all the way out here?” moaned Connor, shielding his face from another gust. “No wonder he doesn’t come to class in this weather!”
“He doesn’t walk this way,” said David. “I think he takes another way—a secret way. This campus is full of them. You can catch them if you know how to look.”
Connor whistled through his teeth and pressed David for details that were not forthcoming. Max glanced at his roommate, thinking of the night David had vanished to fetch the grimoires, just barely evading Cooper. David never mentioned the incident, and Max had let it be, embarrassed that he had been spying.
As they reached the crest of yet another dune, Bob suddenly put up his hand and motioned for them to be still. A heavy sniffing sound could be heard.
To his horror, Max saw several pairs of luminous green eyes looking up at them from below.
“Bob—” Max hissed as Cynthia clung to him and they backed away.
“Shhh!” commanded Bob, swinging the lantern around and peering down at the eyes below.
The children huddled in terrified silence for several moments while Bob stood as still as a stone, staring down at the base of the dune. Suddenly, there was a low whine that rose above the wind.
Whatever they were had gone.
“We get going,” rumbled Bob. “Not far now.”
“Bob,” said Connor, shivering and clinging to the ogre’s side, “what were those?”
“Bob knows not,” he muttered. “Many wild charges live outside the clearing.”
“What do you mean ‘wild charges’?” asked David, his voice almost lost to the wind.
Bob stooped low to answer.
“Charges whose keepers have gone away—charges that live off on their own. Some may have forgotten that people ever cared for them.”
“Are they dangerous?” asked Cynthia, shuddering and looking around.
Bob shrugged. “They are wild,” he said, hefting the heavy thermos like a weapon and leading them toward the next dune.
Max caught the comforting smell of a fireplace even before he scrambled up the final dune and saw the cottage. Situated near the edge of a dark wood thick with fir trees, its walls were made of mortared stone crossed with timbers and surrounded by a low picket fence. Bright yellow lights peeked from behind its curtained windows. Eager to leave the wild charges and wintry conditions behind, Max and the others ran downhill toward the cottage.
“Stop!” Bob’s voice echoed on the wind, bringing them to a stumbling halt. “Wait for Bob,” he wheezed, stepping sideways down the dune and using the lantern to light the easiest way. “Little children anxious for walls and warmth. Makes little children foolish—think they are now safe and become blind to dangers.”
“Why do you say that?” asked Connor, rubbing his arms and casting a longing look at the warm cottage.
A slight frown crept across Bob’s craggy features. “Before Bob became cook, Bob was ogre….”
The ogre knocked on the cottage’s red door; a thick sheet of snow slid off the roof and crashed into the garden. The children huddled together for warmth, their backs to Bob as their eyes scanned the forest and dunes. Bob knocked again.
“Instructor Morrow?” Bob inquired delicately. “It is Bob and some students.”
No sound came from the cottage.
“We brought soup for you,” Bob purred. “Soooouuuuup!”
Bob looked at the children and shrugged, bending down to leave the thermos of soup by the door. Cynthia shook her head and squeezed past Bob, turning the doorknob and poking her head inside.
“Cynthia!” wheezed Bob. “He might be in the bathroom or…unclothed!”
“Oh, shush!” Cynthia replied with authority. “He’s sick and he needs people to look after him. I haven’t hiked this far in the cold to leave him a frozen thermos of soup! C’mon.”
Max, David, Connor, and Bob followed Cynthia through the doorway and into a warm room with a low ceiling. Bob’s back creaked as he ducked to avoid hitting his head on a low beam. Books were everywhere: great piles of leather tomes stuffed onto shelves, stacked in precarious towers, or scattered in seemingly random arrangements on the floor.
A low fire burned in a small fireplace while candles flickered here and there amidst winding trails of wax. Mr. Morrow was sound asleep, slumped in a cracked leather chair and buried in blankets. He did not look well; his lips were dry and there were purple circles under his eyes. His gray hair was matted to his shiny forehead.
Max turned to warm his hands at the fire when, suddenly, a familiar voice rumbled in the room.
“I’m far too fat for such tiny pallbearers.”
Max and the children jumped, but Bob’s face widened into a relieved grin.
“Ah!” exclaimed the ogre. “You are awake, Instructor. Good, good, we brought you some soup!”
Mr. Morrow fixed them with a bright eye as he drew his blanket closer.
“Most kind of you—it’ll help me take my medicine.”
“Ooh,” said Connor, stooping to examine a cup of bright green liquid sitting on an end table. “Is this some sort of magic potion?”
“Yes, my boy,” said Mr. Morrow in a hushed voice suggesting awe and mystery. “This very potion offers its brave imbiber a bevy of benefits both strange and wonderful. I give you…cough syrup!”
Cynthia, Max, and David burst into laughter as Connor set the cup down with a disappointed expression. Mr. Morrow chuckled, too, but was quickly overcome by a spasm of hacking coughs.
“How are you feeling, Mr. Morrow?” asked Cynthia. She brought over a bowl of soup poured from the thermos while the instructor pushed aside a number of spent and wadded tissues until he arrived upon his pipe. With a distracted shrug at Cynthia’s question, he lit his pipe and took a long draw.
“So, Bob,” inquired Mr. Morrow without turning his head, “how’d you persuade these four young rascals to visit this sick old bird?”
“Bob didn’t, Instructor. They let Bob come with them.”
Mr. Morrow let out a surprised grunt as Max wandered over to examine a framed photograph on the wall. The image was a younger likeness of Mr. Morrow in a fedora posing in front of the Eiffel Tower with an elegant young woman. Max thought suddenly of the carving he had seen on a tree in town: “Byron loves Elaine ’46.”
“Ahhh, Mr. McDaniels. Are you admiring my pretty lady?” asked Mr. Morrow.
“Yes, sir.”
“That’s my wife, Elaine. Cancer got her.”
“I’m sorry,” said Max awkwardly.
Mr. Morrow shook his head impatiently and cleared his throat.
“Don’t be. It was her time. Everyone should be so lucky as to find his matched pair in this world. I’m grateful for the years we had.”
Cynthia stepped over to the photograph.
“Mr. Morrow!” she said. “You were a handsome devil! Look at you in that suit!”
“Very handsome,” intoned Bob in agreement, stooping lower to examine the photo over their shoulders.
“Oh, stop it!” Mr. Morrow chuckled. “You’ll make this fat old thing too vain for his own good. That photograph should be in the Smithsonian!” He looked into the fire, but Max saw that he was pleased.
“Who’s this?” asked David, picking up a frame perched on a pile of books. In it was a yellowed photograph of a young man in a military uniform.
“Oh, that’s my son. Arthur,” said Mr. Morrow quietly. “That’s him right after he joined the Marines. Lost him, too—his entire platoon, as a matter of fact.”
Cynthia made a furious gesture at David to put the photograph down.
“It’s all right, Cynthia,” said Mr. Morrow with an understanding smile. “I’m flattered that you children take an interest in my family.” He motioned for David to hand him the photograph.
“The politicians chose war and he chose it, too,” said Mr. Morrow, studying the photo. “I didn’t understand. It’s strange, really. My whole life has been consumed with the study of war—of kingdoms that rise and fall with fire and sword. It all seems very glorious until it swallows up someone you love. Life is too precious a thing to throw away on orders and absurd chains of command.”
He put aside the picture and turned back to his soup, spilling a bit onto his robe. David looked depressed. Bob made a steadying gesture with his hand, cleaning up the used tissues that lay in little piles around the chair. Mr. Morrow looked up once more.
“Come now—if I’m to suffer visitors, then the least they can do is offer news! What are the happenings on campus? How’s Hazel managing with my classes? Have they found those stolen children yet? Missing Potentials is serious business—”
“Instructor,” warned Bob, dropping a porcelain cup he’d been washing. “They are not supposed to—”
“Not supposed to know?” exclaimed Mr. Morrow. “You mean Gabrielle still hasn’t told them the dangers despite all her promises? That’s outrageous! It’s—it’s unconscionable!”
“What are you talking about?” Cynthia asked quietly. “What ‘stolen children’?”
“We should be going,” said Bob, reaching for his coat and motioning to the others. “We will visit again soon.”
“No, Bob,” said Cynthia. “I want to hear this.”
“You must hear this,” growled Mr. Morrow, sitting up in his chair with a fierce look. The ogre sighed and peered out the window. “It’s your right and responsibility to know the dangers you face. Do any of you know anything about this?”
Max and David glanced at each other. The wind raged outside the cottage; drafts scurried through cracks, causing the candles to flicker. Ignoring David’s little shake of the head, Max spoke up.
“I do.”
“What do you know, my boy?” grumbled Mr. Morrow, giving Max his full attention.
“I know that some children—Potentials—have been taken by the Enemy all over the world,” said Max, speaking carefully. “I know another kid, someone named Mickey Lees, was supposed to be in our class. I guess he was last seen with Miss May, who…who died.”
The room was very still; Mr. Morrow looked tired and sad.
“And how do you know this, Max?” asked Mr. Morrow.
“I overheard Ms. Richter talking about it in the Sanctuary. And because the Enemy tried to take me, too.”
Cynthia and Connor gasped; David looked irritated and stared into the fire. Leaning back in his chair, Mr. Morrow jabbed an authoritative finger at Max.
“You tell me everything, McDaniels.”
For the next ten minutes, he related his encounter with Mrs. Millen. Mr. Morrow puffed thoughtfully on his pipe, shushing the others when they tried to ask questions. Max glanced at Bob, but the ogre appeared lost in his own thoughts. When Max had finished, Mr. Morrow fixed him with a frank look.
“You’re lucky to be alive. Your ‘Mrs. Millen’ was almost certainly a vye.”
Max’s stomach contracted into an icy clump.
“What’s a vye?” he asked.
“A shape-shifter,” explained Mr. Morrow. “Very crafty. Tough to detect and, according to our Agents in the field, appearing in greater numbers. Their real form is terrifying.”
“Does a vye look like a werewolf?” Connor piped from near the fire. His face looked drawn and frightened.
Mr. Morrow fixed him with a peculiar, penetrating glance.
“Yes, Mr. Lynch, it might look like a werewolf to you,” he said, his voice gravelly and low. “Bear in mind, however, that a vye is not a werewolf. The vye is larger, with a more distorted and hideous face—part wolf, part jackal, part human, with squinty eyes and a twisted snout. In human form, however, they can be most convincing. You must never speak to a vye, children! They are clever in their deceits, and their voices are wound with spells to ensnare you.”
“How would you even know if you’re speaking to one?” whispered Cynthia, shivering and scooting closer to the fire.
“There are all kinds of tricks to uncover one, but I’m a strong believer in the gut. If a vye approaches you, Miss Gilley, something will feel very, very wrong in your belly or down the spine. As they prefer to attack when your guard is down, a vye will often seek to gain your confidence first. This may give you an opportunity to identify it before…before it has you.”
A sudden cry pierced the room.
“I remember now!” exclaimed David. “I’ve seen vyes before!”
“We all did, David,” said Connor reassuringly, “from the hallway window last semester. That must have been a vye….”
“No,” said David, shaking his head. “Back in Colorado, before I came to Rowan. I was walking home through the woods when I saw someone off the path watching me. Something about him scared me and I walked faster. He started to follow and I ran as fast as I could. He started laughing; he was making fun of me for running slow.” David began coughing, and it was several seconds before he could continue. “I turned around and he was coming after me on all fours. Changing shape, catching up, and laughing the whole time.”
Max had never seen David like this before. His voice was so faint and small; he looked and sounded traumatized.
“I tripped,” he continued. “I saw another one coming at me through the woods…. I think I screamed and fainted. When I woke up, they were gone. So were the trees around me…. Everything was burned. I know it sounds crazy, but I think that it all happened.”
“I believe you,” rumbled Mr. Morrow, patting David’s shoulder. The instructor convulsed with a sudden fit of wheezing laughter. “Imagine those poor vyes’ shock when they realized—pardon the expression—that they’d bitten off more than they could chew! Thinking they’re toying with a poor helpless boy only to encounter him instead!” His laughter sputtered into hacking coughs.
“What are you talking about, Mr. Morrow?” huffed Cynthia. “David could have been killed!”
“No, Miss Gilley,” said Mr. Morrow, rubbing his hand over his white stubble. “I do not think two vyes are likely to be the downfall of our Mr. Menlo. And in any case, I do not believe the Enemy is merely out to take the lives of our unsuspecting young ones. I fear a darker purpose is at work.”
“Like what? What would the Enemy want with Potentials?” asked Connor.
Max and David glanced at each other again. Although David had deciphered the reasons behind the stolen paintings, the stolen Potentials remained a mystery.
“Our Potentials are our lifeblood,” rumbled Mr. Morrow. “If the Enemy saps our youth, our future withers. It would be devastating to kill off our Potentials, but it would be much worse should they become corrupted to the Enemy’s will. Our ranks would dwindle while theirs grew stronger. The key question is how? How are they managing to reach our Potentials before we do? For that I have no answer, but I fear the worst….”
“And what’s that?” ventured Cynthia weakly.
“Treachery!” boomed Mr. Morrow, pounding his fist into his hand. “Betrayal! Treason against humanity by one of our own! Some here scoff at the notion, but these same people can’t tell me how our Potentials are being snatched away. And they have no answers for the breach we suffered last autumn.”
“But why would Ms. Richter want to keep all of this a secret?” asked Max.
Mr. Morrow was silent; his rheumy eyes shot quickly from face to face. Suddenly, his features darkened and his jaw quivered.
“Because Richter’s nothing but a bureaucrat! A war is beginning, children! The Enemy is on the move. Only a fool wouldn’t see this rash of vyes for what they are—scouts to test our strength and will. Nothing less.”
The words came quickly; he clawed at his chair with his fingers.
“War is coming, and our Director clings to process and procedure like every lousy bureaucrat before her…. And it’s because of fear, I tell you! She’s paralyzed by the thought of a mistake—that her competency will be questioned and someone will challenge her for—”
“That is enough!”
Bob’s voice shook the cottage; the windows hummed. Max had never seen Bob raise his voice in anger. It was terrifying.
Mr. Morrow did not appear terrified, however. He appeared capable of violence. Slowly, however, the old man’s silent fury subsided to anger and then to a weary, defeated look. He nodded at Bob, coughing hard into a fistful of blanket. He gave the children an apologetic wave of his hand.
“You’re right, you’re right. You bring me soup, and I go ahead and frighten you! It’s this horrible flu talking—making me cranky—eh, Bob?”
Bob said nothing. He pulled on his coat and opened the door a crack. A gust of wind upset some papers on a nearby shelf. He watched them settle to the ground in slow spirals.
“We must go. Children, come along with Bob.”
“Yes, yes,” agreed Mr. Morrow. “You’re all very kind for looking after me. Ah! But before you leave, we should have a quick lesson.”
Mr. Morrow put down his pipe and leaned forward in his chair.
“I can’t frighten you all about vyes without giving you a bit of defense, can I? Vyes hate bright light—causes them to lose their senses for a moment. It’s a simple enough trick, but I know they don’t get to it until later. You should be able to do it with the energy already in you—no need to tap other sources or gather any.”
Mr. Morrow balled his hand and then spread his fingers, hissing, “Solas.” The room was filled with a bright burst of light, like a massive flashbulb. Little shapes swam before Max’s eyes. A moment later, the room was dim again, lit only by the fire and candles.
“You all try it. It’s a simple thing, really.”
Connor stepped forward, his hand in a tight fist.
“Solas!”
The room flickered with a bright golden light.
Mr. Morrow nodded and turned next to Cynthia, who looked doubtfully at her hand.
“Solas!”
The room filled momentarily with warm light. Connor and Cynthia seemed delighted with their new skill.
“And you, Mr. McDaniels,” murmured Mr. Morrow, dabbing at his nose.
As soon as the word left Max’s lips, the room erupted in brilliant light that subsided just as quickly.
“Last but not least, Mr. Menlo.”
David shook his head and stepped to the door.
“I can do it,” said David simply. “I hope you feel better, Mr. Morrow. I’ll visit again soon.”
Mr. Morrow nodded and offered a small, sad smile.
“I hope so, Mr. Menlo,” he said softly. “And many thanks to all of you for looking in on a poor sick thing! Forgive me if I lost my head.”
The children waved good-bye. Mr. Morrow waved back, looking very small and old. He reached for a nearby photo album.
Outside, Bob took long strides to the top of the first dune. He motioned for them to come quickly before disappearing over the crest. Max started to trot ahead but hung back when he heard Connor chiding David.
“Oh, come on, David. We all did it.”
“I already know I can,” muttered David, zipping his jacket and pulling on his gloves with his teeth.
“I know you can, too,” said Connor, laughing, “but I want to see for myself, Mr. Magic Man!”
“Me too!” added Cynthia.
“Yeah,” said Max, feeling a swell of envy. After all, Mr. Morrow said Max was lucky to have survived Mrs. Millen while David had had nothing to fear from the vyes that chased him in the woods. “It’s not fair for you to just watch all the time.”
At Max’s words, David stopped pulling on his glove. The smile melted from Max’s face. David looked at him impassively for several seconds. With a sudden nod of his head, David flexed his hand.
“Solas,” he whispered.
Max gave a yelp and fell backward in the snow as the entire sky erupted in light, illuminating the countryside for miles as though a hundred bolts of lightning had flashed at once. Max’s eyes stung from the sudden exposure. Connor and Cynthia were doubled over, shielding their faces, while Bob fumbled blindly for the lantern he had dropped. When Max regained focus, he saw David standing over him, extending his hand.
“Don’t ask me to do that again,” he whispered, helping Max to his feet. Max nodded, his cheeks flushing in shame. Ascending the dune, David carefully placed the lantern in Bob’s groping hand. With a moan, Bob lurched to his feet and placed a hand to his knotty forehead.
“Bob will be fired….”
The trek back was quiet, broken only occasionally by Bob’s faint and angry muttering in Russian. Max’s spirits were finally lifted by the happy sounds of Nolan’s fiddle, which turned his thoughts away from wild charges, lurking vyes, and missing children.
Bob turned to face them.
“Bob goes ahead. Dinner soon. Say nothing of the light,” he warned, wagging a finger at them, lingering a moment on Connor’s ruddy face. “If you do, Bob gets false teeth. Then Bob finds you!” The ogre’s features twisted into a hideous, sunken smile, and he pulled the lantern close to cast an eerie glow across his face. Connor whimpered and took a backward step. With a satisfied chuckle, Bob smiled and walked on ahead, taking six feet at a stride.
“He’s kidding, right?” Connor said with a weak laugh.
“Of course he is,” said Cynthia, sneezing into her sleeve.
As Max and the others approached the Warming Lodge, they saw that the bonfire was still burning brightly, and a dozen students lounged on bales of hay. Nolan was putting his fiddle in its case. Julie was busy aiming her camera at Lucia, who had fallen asleep with Kettlemouth held tightly in her arms. Other students began to stir, standing up and stamping their feet to get the feeling back in their toes.
“Hey there!” drawled Nolan. “Y’all missed the music, but you’re in time for dinner. Good timing either way you look at it!”
“Oh, stop it, Nolan,” Cynthia blushed. “The music sounded wonderful!”
Max and Connor shot each other a look. Even David smiled.
“Thank you, Cynthia,” said Nolan. “Did you catch a glimpse of that light?”
Max shut his eyes as he and Connor blurted, “No,” while Cynthia and David simultaneously exclaimed, “Yes.” Nolan raised an eyebrow.
“Never seen anything like it before,” he continued. “Lit up the whole Sanctuary—”
“Oh, Nolan,” Cynthia interrupted, “couldn’t we hear just one more song—a quick one? Old Tom hasn’t chimed the dinner bell just yet.”
Nolan hesitated.
“Pleeeaaaaase?” begged Cynthia, tugging on his arm. Connor rolled his eyes and coughed loudly.
“Okay,” said Nolan, looking flattered. “A quick one, then. ‘Daisy Bell,’ to get us thinking of spring around the corner.”
Max stopped politely as Nolan began to play. He was anxious to get back to the Manse for dinner. His stomach, his bladder, and the fact that Julie made him queasy led him to look longingly toward the hedge tunnel.
Suddenly, an impossibly magnetic voice, rich and deep, began to sing.
Daisy, Daisy,
Give me your answer, do,
I’m half crazy,
All for the love of you.
It won’t be a stylish marriage,
I can’t afford a carriage,
But you’ll look sweet,
Upon the seat
Of a bicycle built for two.
Max stood rooted to the spot as the words washed over him. Kettlemouth had hopped away from Lucia and now sat alone on a bale of hay. His blood-red throat was puffed out like a balloon; his head pumped up and down in rhythm to the music.
Kettlemouth was singing.
Nolan got a funny look on his face and picked up the tempo. He struck up the tune again, and Kettlemouth’s voice filled the clearing. Cynthia started jumping up and down, clapping her hands in wild applause.
“Oh, Nolan,” she gushed, “it’s beautiful! You’re so very talented, Nolan! Really, I mean it. And you have such a rugged way about you!”
Max’s whole body began to tingle with warmth. He watched as David, with a wry smile, plucked Julie’s camera from a nearby chair.
Hoarse barking suddenly filled the air. Frigga and Helga, the Scandinavian selkies, were lumbering toward them from the lagoon in ground-shaking ripples as steam rose off their thick blubber. Coming to a skidding stop, the selkies began to bump each other aside in an effort to gain position next to a handsome Fourth Year boy, who was now in a passionate embrace with a redheaded classmate.
Like a shot, Tweedy bounded off his bale of hay and began to weave mad zigzags through the snow, chasing a spotted rabbit that had been chewing a stray bit of hay. Tweedy’s bifocals fell to the ground, where Connor promptly smashed them as he stumbled past to plop down on Lucia’s lap. She was now awake and smiled coyly at him, batting her thick eyelashes.
The song began once more; Nolan grimaced as his fingers danced mechanically over the strings. Cynthia began clapping and singing along with an enthusiasm that far exceeded her musical talents. A furious bark erupted from Frigga, who was angrily eyeing the amorous Fourth Years.
“What she got that Frigga no have?”
“No winter coat of blubber, that what!” barked Helga.
“Quiet, you!” roared Frigga, thumping her sister with an angry head-butt.
Max’s heart started beating faster, fluttering like a moth in his rib cage. Julie had risen to her feet and was staring at him with a puzzled expression. As Kettlemouth’s voice rose to a fevered pitch, Max took several steps toward Julie and took hold of her hand. She gave his hand a little squeeze in return; her nose was pink, and her breath smelled like peppermint. Max cleared his throat.
“Julie—”
Suddenly, she kissed him, throwing her arms around him and almost knocking him over. Her nose was cold against his cheek, and Max felt weightless….
Old Tom’s chimes sounded clear and cold in the winter air. Max opened his eyes in alarm; Julie backed several feet away, her face a deep scarlet. Kettlemouth had abruptly stopped his singing and hopped off the bale of hay. As though they burned him, Mr. Nolan flung his fiddle and bow into the snow and began shaking his cramped hands. A sheepish Connor apologized profusely while Lucia screamed at him in Italian. The Fourth Year boy stood by with a confused and frightened expression on his face as Frigga briskly informed him that “It not have worked out for us, anyway. You are human and Frigga is selkie.”
“Not a word, you!” Tweedy snapped at Omar, who was giggling in fits as he tried to piece together Tweedy’s mangled spectacles. Tweedy whirled to face Nolan, thrusting a paw in the direction of Kettlemouth.
“I demand that such a creature be removed from this Sanctuary! This is an outrage! That amphibian’s power is disgusting and irresponsible! It’s—it’s not dignified!”
Nolan shook his head and retrieved his fiddle from the snow, wiping it clean with his sleeve. Cynthia handed him his bow while staring at her boots.
“Now, now, Tweedy,” cautioned Nolan, “I grant you I didn’t realize Kettlemouth’s songs were so…compelling…but it’s not his fault. Anyway, his songs just eliminate inhibitions; they don’t make you do anything you didn’t already want to do.”
Max glanced at Julie, who avoided his eyes and gathered up her things.
Tweedy hopped over to Nolan, his whiskers twitching with incredulous rage.
“Are you insane or simply ignorant, man? Are you suggesting that I wanted to court some unwashed, uneducated floozy from the wrong side of the meadow? That this is some secret desire I harbor?”
“Well,” quipped Nolan, giving a casual wave of his hand to slowly extinguish the bonfire, “it’s no secret anymore, is it, Tweedy? But I’ll be sure to speak to the Director to see if there are some precautions we should take with Kettlemouth.”
A few students snickered while Tweedy stood on his hind legs, bristling and uncharacteristically speechless. Finally, Tweedy hopped after Nolan, who was now walking with several students toward the Sanctuary tunnel. Omar ran after them, erupting in periodic snickers. Lucia had taken Kettlemouth back into the Lodge, slamming the door in Connor’s face. Max shivered, watching it all unfold before running after Julie, who was hurrying up the path with a girlfriend.
“Julie, Julie, wait up,” huffed Max, slowing to a walk next to her. “I thought maybe you could help me with some homework I have for Strategy—”
“Sorry,” Julie muttered, avoiding his eyes. “I have a practical in Devices. Gotta run.”
Max watched the two girls disappear into the tunnel. He sighed and started for the tunnel when he heard Cynthia screech behind him.
“Whatever, Connor!”
As David looked on, Connor was doing a funny, albeit cruel, impersonation of Cynthia applauding Nolan’s efforts on the fiddle. He jumped up and down, clapping wildly before clasping his hands in a sudden swoon.
Cynthia looked furious and near tears. “You shouldn’t talk, Connor! You were just as big an idiot as any of us!”
“Please,” dismissed Connor. “Boys, are we going to let Cynthia off the hook so easily?”
Without a word, David took Julie’s digital camera out from his pocket. Scrolling through several photos, he stopped at one and thrust the camera before Connor’s eyes.
Connor’s smirk vanished. He swallowed and blinked.
“Right, then,” he said. “Well—we’re late for dinner, and I’m starving.”
Connor crunched through the snow for the tunnel. David slipped the camera back into his pocket and sauntered after, whistling “Daisy Bell.” Squealing with delight, Cynthia rushed past Max.
“David Menlo! Let me see that photograph!”
The foyer was wet with small puddles of melted snow and boots that had been cast aside. Sounds of laughter and the smell of meat loaf issued from the stairwell to the dining hall. Just as the four children tossed their boots into a corner, Ms. Richter appeared from the hallway leading to her office. With a small frown, she looked at the mess. Suddenly, the icy puddles evaporated from the tiles while the boots arranged themselves in neat pairs against the wall. Then Ms. Richter’s attention abruptly shifted to them.
“You four come with me. Now.”
It was not a long walk to her office. Max shuffled along in his socks, ignoring Connor’s attempts to get his attention and keeping his eyes locked on the floor ahead of him. Pushing open the door, the Director motioned them inside.
Max looked up. He intended to scream but found instead that his mouth merely opened and closed as if he were a goldfish scooped from the water.
Inside the office was Cooper. Tethered to Cooper was a vye.