8
THE NEW AND WEIRD
Stifling a yawn, Max stumbled down the hallway with his classmates shortly before six o’clock Monday morning. Many were exhausted, having spent Sunday cleaning out the stables as punishment for their foray aboard the Kestrel. The task had taken most of the day, leaving them drained and filthy. Ms. Richter had been sparing with her words, muttering only that she had never seen a class so determined to exterminate themselves.
When Mr. Vincenti asked why they had elected to do such a foolish thing, Connor insisted that it was his idea, staring all the while at Alex Muñoz, who gawked from the dwindling crowd.
Despite their questions, no one told them what had churned the seas and wailed so horribly. No students seemed to know, and no faculty would say.
Max was particularly tired. After the day’s labor, feeding and playing with Nick had proven to be no trivial task. Following the instructions in his booklet, Max murmured, “Food for Nick: Black Forest lymrill,” into a stained and spattered wooden bin in the Warming Lodge. The bin rumbled and shook, its lid clattering and spilling beams of light onto the stalls. While his reading had braced him for Nick’s diet, Max still retched upon opening the lid. The bin was piled high with crates of writhing rodents and worms along with small stacks of thin metal bars.
Nick’s tail fluttered wildly, and he zoomed up and down the corridor as Max loaded the crates into a wheelbarrow and staggered outside. He looked away as Nick methodically devoured each crate’s contents: first bloodying his snout in the wriggling piles of vermin before extending his tongue to deftly separate, lift, and swallow whole each of the small metal bars. After cleaning himself vigorously in the lagoon, Nick then chased Max about the clearing, racing ahead in tremendous bursts of speed to ambush him from outcroppings of rock or swatting playfully at his ankles to spill the boy into the grass as he fled. When Nick finally stopped and curled himself into a dozing ball, Max almost wept with gratitude. Scooping the lymrill into his arms, he walked down the Warming Lodge’s rows of stalls until he found the door for Nick’s. After laying the sleeping lymrill in the boughs of the stall’s small tree, Max dragged himself to bed.
“How are you feeling?” inquired Omar, stumbling along next to Max as they descended the stairs for their first class. Omar was in Max’s section, one of five groupings of First Years who would be taking all of their classes together.
“I can’t even see straight,” moaned Max. “Nick kept me out until eleven.”
“Can Nick talk?” asked Omar, rubbing sleep from his eyes.
“No.”
“Well, you should be thankful. Try caring for Tweedy. He’s making me memorize the life works of his favorite composers….”
Max grunted in sympathy as they entered the basement classroom, a large space whose floor was covered in firm, spongy mats. A tall, wiry man with close-cropped black hair and heavy-lidded eyes stood in the middle of the room. He wore a loose-fitting shirt and pants; his feet were bare. He sipped from a bottle of water as he perused a clipboard, not bothering to look up as they entered.
“Remove your shoes,” he murmured with a slight accent. “Start jogging around the room. Clockwise. Quick, quick!”
Max jogged along with the others, shooting curious glances at the instructor as they lapped doggedly around the room. “Faster,” the man’s voice snapped like a whip. After a few minutes, Max was huffing; he noticed Jesse and Cynthia were several laps behind. The man took another distracted sip, sat on the ground, and murmured, “All right. Over here. Spread out along the floor, facing me. Stretch your hamstrings, like so.” He spread his legs and smoothly lowered his forehead to a knee, holding it there. As Max and the others seated themselves and struggled to emulate him, he abruptly stood and started walking around the room. “Do not bounce!” he hissed, passing Connor, who promptly groaned and forced himself back down.
“I am Monsieur Renard. I will be your instructor for Training and Games. You will either love or hate me. This does not concern me.”
Max’s eyes widened. He shot a look at Connor, who had unwisely taken a break just as M. Renard passed behind him.
“Many of you are fat and lazy,” the instructor hissed, digging his toe into Connor’s midsection. “Little sausages that have burst their casings. That ends today. Cynthia Gilley?”
“Over here,” wheezed Cynthia, red-faced in the corner.
“Cynthia Gilley,” he read off the clipboard. “Lactic production rate: forty-nine. Lactic dispersion rate: thirty-four. Twitch speed: fifty-one. Muscular density, current: thirty-six…. Hmmm. You might have to be a special project. And I do not like special projects.”
Cynthia looked helpless.
“Rolf Luger,” he continued, scanning down the list. “Not bad…not bad at all. We’ll see what we can do.”
Rolf suddenly looked very serious and grunted through his stretches.
“Max McDaniels?” M. Renard inquired, raising his eyebrows and scanning the room for Max, who raised his hand. M. Renard walked over, looking him up and down with a stoic expression. “Your ratings are unusual—most unusual. Are you aware that a ninety-five has never been recorded?”
“Nigel said something about it,” said Max, ignoring the glances from his classmates.
“Are you lazy?” asked the instructor, looking down his nose.
“I don’t think so.”
“We shall see,” mused M. Renard, turning on his heel. It was a punishing hour of exercises and stretches. Cynthia had been reduced to tears; M. Renard simply stepped over Omar’s inert body when he assumed the fetal position during sit-ups. When M. Renard finally announced that class was finished, the students rushed off to shower and breakfast before their first academic classes.
Clutching a slice of buttered toast, Max ran up Maggie’s steep stone steps as fast as his tired legs would allow. His school uniform felt hot and stifling. Other students disappeared quickly down hallways; doors began closing.
This classroom was smaller and cozier than the Manse’s basement gymnasium, its desks and chairs raised in a small amphitheater to look down on the instructor’s desk and blackboard. Old prints, tapestries, and rich paintings of landscapes and famous battles hung on the paneled walls. The room smelled strongly of tobacco, while warm saltwater breezes slipped through the open windows facing the sea. An old, roly-poly man sat low in a cracked leather chair near the blackboard, puffing on a meerschaum pipe, and nodding as they entered. As they took their seats, he grumbled in a low baritone.
“No familiar faces here. Good. I think I must be in the right place. Welcome to Humanities for First Year Apprentices. I’m Byron Morrow. I’ll be your instructor.”
Lucia coughed and raised her hand.
“Mr. Morrow? Will you be smoking a pipe every day?”
“Yes, I will, young lady,” he grumbled, raising an eyebrow. “Is that all right with you?”
“I am allergic to smoke.”
“Heaven help you in Mystics!” he exclaimed. He chuckled and waved his hand, causing the pipe smoke to abruptly stream down and snake a wispy path along the floor until it disappeared up and out the window. “Better?” he grunted.
Lucia nodded with wide eyes.
Throughout the period, Mr. Morrow enchanted Max and his classmates with an overview of the course delivered in his rolling baritone. At times, Mr. Morrow would waddle around his desk in sudden fits of passion; during others he would lean back in his chair to answer students’ questions between long puffs on his pipe. They would be learning a combination of history, literature, writing, and myth. It would be a challenging course, he promised, but those needing extra help could always find him at his small white cottage beyond the Sanctuary dunes.
Mathematics and Science were straightforward and more familiar, if daunting. Math was spent taking a diagnostic test to gauge their proficiency. Max turned it in after only ten minutes; many problems had symbols he had never even seen before.
Science was hardly an improvement, as they were assigned a lengthy chapter in their text and strongly encouraged to know the earth’s major ecosystems by the next class.
Taking a breather before Languages, Max leaned on Maggie’s railing and watched the white-capped swells out on the ocean. In daylight, the Kestrel looked antique and charming—hardly the seesawing terror from which they had fled early Sunday morning. Someone tapped him on the shoulder. He turned to see Julie Teller, grinning and holding a flimsy photo between her fingers.
“Hey, you,” she said with a laugh, “want to see your photo? I should win a Pulitzer!”
“Oh. Hi,” said Max, standing up very straight, aspiring to her height. “Sure.”
She handed him an eight-by-ten black-and-white photograph that showed a shirtless Max leaping high off the ground away from the selkies. His expression was one of sheer terror, his limbs shooting in four different directions. In the photo, Helga had turned her head to look at him; Frigga was still oblivious as she basked in the sun.
“Oh my God,” Max moaned, handing it back to her. “It’s worse than I thought. Are you sure you need to use it?”
“It’s not so bad,” tittered Julie, giving the photo another look. “It’s cute!”
“It is not cute,” muttered Max, blushing. “I won’t live it down all year….”
“Oh, stop it,” she said, smiling. “How’re your classes?”
“They’re okay—I don’t know how I’m going to do all the homework…. I like Mr. Morrow, though.”
“He’s the best,” she gushed. “Some of us still go visit him out at his house. I think he gets lonely sometimes.”
Max nodded, racking his brain for something—anything—to prolong the conversation.
“Well, anyway,” said Julie, hoisting up her bag, “I’ve got Devices—first time, and I heard Vincenti’s a killer. Gotta run!”
With a wave, Julie jogged down a path toward the woods, her shiny auburn hair swishing back and forth. Max watched her go, until Connor stuck his head out Maggie’s double doors.
“Who was she? She’s a stunner,” Connor said as Max followed him inside and up the stairs.
“She’s a Third Year,” Max replied, wary of Connor’s tone. “I met her in the Sanctuary…. She took my picture for the newspaper.”
“Think she likes you?” asked Connor, sounding impressed.
“No.” Max flushed. “She liked the photo opportunity.”
The rest of their Languages class was already seated when Max and Connor entered. The room looked like a concert hall in miniature, its polished walls and roof designed for optimum acoustics. At the front of the room was a very large woman with curly black hair who wore a cheery sundress and an unusual coppery necklace. Once Max and Connor took their seats, she handed out printed sheets and delicate chrome headsets that blinked with bright green lights. Returning to the blackboard, she wrote:
Welcome to Languages.
My name is Celia Babel.
She turned and beamed at them, then motioned for Connor to introduce himself. He did so, followed by the others. Next she motioned for them to read their handouts. Puzzled that the woman had not yet spoken a word, Max read a passage that was printed in several different languages.
Please pick up the headset on your desk. It is a translator and it is already turned on. On the screen labeled AUDIBLE, use the arrows and scroll to Greek. On the screen labeled SUB, please scroll to your native language and put on the headset. Further instructions will follow.
Mrs. Babel waited patiently for the class to follow the instructions before she spoke for the first time. Her voice was high-pitched and a bit nasal, and the words were completely foreign—unfamiliar and spoken with a strange rhythm. Yet, to his utter shock, Max found he could understand them.
“Hello, students,” the instructor said. “I’m pleased to have you in my Languages class. At the moment, you are hearing the Greek language—a language with which all of you are unfamiliar. You are simultaneously hearing, in your subconscious brain, these words and phrases translated into your native tongue. How many of you have difficulty understanding English?”
Max saw over a dozen hands rise high into the air. Mrs. Babel smiled at them.
“You may keep these devices for use in your other classes. Your English will improve very quickly as your brain begins to correlate it with your native language.”
Everyone laughed as a Portuguese girl cheered gratefully.
“Regardless of what language we are speaking,” Mrs. Babel continued, “it’s a good idea to have these devices handy when speaking with me. Please shut them off and I’ll demonstrate why.”
Mrs. Babel removed her coppery necklace as Max flicked off his device’s switch. He was suddenly assailed by a bewildering cacophony of voices. Mrs. Babel was evidently speaking—her mouth was moving—but the sound that issued forth was an unintelligible mixture of words, shrieks, grunts, and clicks. She shrugged her shoulders with a helpless smile and replaced her necklace, inviting them to don their devices once more.
“Years ago, I was stationed at a field office in Ghana. One of our informants accused me of double talk and cursed me to speak all languages simultaneously. Mr. Vincenti had this necklace developed for me as a project for the Sixth Years—it filters all the languages I’m speaking down to Greek. A bit limiting for a language teacher, but a minor inconvenience in the big scheme of things.”
Sarah Amankwe raised her hand.
“I don’t want to be rude,” she said, “but if this device can help us to learn any language, why do we need a language class?”
“That would certainly help you to understand the spoken language and eventually speak it yourself,” replied the instructor. “You’ll see many older students around campus doing just that. It would not, however, help you read or write that language, to say nothing of absorbing the culture’s traditions or way of life. Understanding a person’s words and understanding the person is not always the same thing. In this class, we strive for cultural immersion….”
The rest of the class was spent on the Greek alphabet. As Mrs. Babel spoke, labeled pictures of the Greek landscape, mythic figures, leaders, and philosophers appeared on the walls and ceiling. Max worked hard to keep up, scribbling the strange symbols in his notebook as quickly as he could.
After Languages, Max’s section of First Years grabbed sandwiches and fruit from the dining hall and sat outside near their Class Tree. Hannah and her brood waddled by.
Max collapsed onto the grass, his exhaustion washing over him. He listened to the others’ conversations as the sun warmed his face. But it wasn’t long before a familiar voice broke in.
“Hey! It’s the tadpoles!”
Max cracked an eye as Alex, Sasha, and Anna wandered over with some other Second Years.
“Hmmm,” said Alex, coming to a sudden halt and sniffing the air. “Why would tadpoles smell like horse manure?”
“I dunno. But it sure does stink!” said Sasha, waving a hand under his nose.
Connor held his nose and squinted up at the older students. “We stink because we cleaned the stables. What’s your excuse, Muñoz?” replied Connor. Almost everyone laughed, including some of the Second Years. Alex simply smiled grimly and nodded his head, moving closer to Connor.
“You know,” said Sarah, rising angrily and stabbing a finger at Alex, “that wasn’t funny the other night. I can’t swim. Someone could have hit their head and drowned. Whatever was in the water could have hurt us!”
Alex clapped his hands to his cheeks and turned to the others, imitating Sarah. Anna laughed, but some of the Second Years fidgeted uncomfortably and looked away.
“Ignore them, Sarah,” muttered Jesse, stacking paper plates and brushing crumbs off his legs. Suddenly, his soda toppled over. Jesse leapt to his feet, a large wet stain spreading across his navy pants.
Alex doubled up with laughter.
“Hey, check it out—he wet his pants!” the older boy shouted.
Jesse reddened. “You made that cup fall over.”
“Sure. You wet your pants and try and blame someone else. Nice!” exclaimed Alex sarcastically, turning to the others.
Jesse suddenly stepped forward to push Alex. Alex laughed incredulously and stepped to the side, locking one of Jesse’s arms straight and tossing him hard to the ground.
Max sat up completely as there were several shouts of protest. Jesse lay curled up on the grass, holding his elbow. Connor jumped to his feet.
“You’re a bloody jerk, Muñoz!”
Connor launched himself at Alex to grab hold of his shirt. Again, Alex stepped to the side. He punched Connor hard below the sternum. Connor dropped to one knee and doubled over.
“C’mon, Lynch,” said Alex with a laugh, rocking on the balls of his feet. “Don’t you have a witty comeback? Let’s hear it, or can’t you talk?”
Anna started to giggle. Lucia reached out to touch Connor’s shoulder, but he brushed her hand away and stared at the grass. Rolf stood up and stepped over to Alex, who was relaxed and grinning.
“Why don’t you leave us alone?” Rolf said. “What do you think you’re proving?”
“He’s right, Alex,” said one of the Second Year girls. “What do you think you’re proving?”
“Me? I’m just welcoming the tadpoles to Rowan! You tadpoles are taking it all wrong. C’mon and shake my hand.” Alex grinned maliciously and stepped forward to extend his hand to Rolf, who looked suddenly uneasy.
Max stepped in front of Rolf and swatted Alex’s hand aside.
“Leave us alone,” Max said.
For a moment, Alex looked shocked; he glanced at Sasha, who merely laughed and shook his head.
“Are you kidding me?” scoffed Alex.
Max ignored Alex’s words as the older boy ridiculed him. He watched his hands instead. Max had learned that bullies always had a great deal to say before they ever did anything, and he suspected that Alex was no different.
Max was right. When the boy’s hands moved up to push him, Max threw a hard, straight jab that smacked square into Alex’s cheek. The punch landed so fast and hard that Alex merely blinked in shock and took a tottering step backward.
“Whoa,” cried Connor, sitting up, as other students ran over at the commotion.
Someone yelled behind Max.
Max realized he’d made a mistake even before he had turned. He felt a flash of pain in his eye as Alex punched him hard from the side. The two fell onto the ground in a rolling tangle of curses and punches and groans.
Just as Max gained the upper hand, something immensely strong took hold of him, and he was pulled firmly up and away. Several Second Years hurried in to restrain Alex. As Alex screamed to be let go, Max whirled around to see who had hold of him.
It was Bob.
There was a stern, sad expression on the ogre’s sunken features as he towered over Max. Setting Max’s feet back on the ground, he stepped in between the two combatants. “No fighting,” rumbled Bob, wagging a giant finger. “Only first day of school!”
Alex pressed his torn shirt to his bleeding mouth. With a furious scowl, he brushed off Sasha.
“We can handle it ourselves,” hissed Alex. “Get back in the kitchen, you oaf!”
“Alex!” one of the Second Years warned. “Watch it!”
“Whatever.” Alex seethed, fixing Max with a furious stare before composing his features into a crooked, bloody smile. “I can’t even tell you how sorry you’re going to be.”
Still grinning, Alex spat, turned, and walked back into the Manse with Sasha and Anna trailing behind. Max put his hand over his throbbing eye. Bob sighed and motioned for Max to follow, leading him into the kitchen, where he scooped a handful of ice into a large yellow dishtowel.
“Come in, come in,” intoned Mr. Watanabe as the class arrived on the second floor of Old Tom for Strategy. The instructor was a trim Japanese man in his fifties. He strolled around the room’s large tables as the students took their seats. When he reached Max, he stopped.
“What happened to you?”
“Oh,” said Max hastily. “Nothing. I fell and hurt my eye.”
Mr. Watanabe raised a skeptical eyebrow and continued, glancing at Max’s knuckles and those of his classmates.
“Welcome to your first year of Strategy and Tactics.” He bowed to the class. “My name is Omi Watanabe, and I will be your instructor. So who can define strategy for me? Let’s discuss what it means to think ‘strategically.’”
Max tried to listen to Sarah’s response, but it was hard. His eye hurt and he was still angry from the fight. Several times, Mr. Watanabe singled him out to make sure he was paying attention. By the end of class, all he could remember was that the course would be divided into Strategy and Tactics. Max thought Strategy sounded boring—lots of principles and dry theories. Tactics assignments would be taken from the Rowan Compendium of Known Enemies, Volume One and sounded much more interesting.
As anxious as he was for the end of class, Max knew he wasn’t the only one to feel that way. Their section had Mystics next, and everyone seemed eager to see what it was all about. When the chimes finally sounded, the students hurried out in a chorus of excited chatter.
“I think Mystics will be my favorite,” commented Lucia. “I put out my fire in under a minute. The Recruiter said it was very good.”
Max nodded, impressed, while David gazed out a window on the stairwell, his backpack slung loosely over his shoulder. He began coughing as everyone clambered up to the second floor. Max put a hand on his shoulder.
“You okay?”
“Yeah,” wheezed David, wiping his nose with a tissue. “Just taking it all in. Lots of stuff, you know.”
“No kidding,” muttered Max, floored by the accumulating homework. “I guess we’ll watch Lucia extinguish fires all period. She did it twice as fast as I did. How long did it take you?”
“I’m not sure,” said David. “I don’t remember.”
“What do you mean, you don’t remember? How can you forget something like that?”
“My memory’s pretty bad sometimes. It’s got holes in it, I guess,” said David, walking on ahead. Max was following when he heard someone call his name. He turned to see Jason Barrett bounding up the stairs.
“Hey, bud,” he called. “I heard about your—whoa! That’s a serious shiner!”
The Sixth Year boy stopped dead in his tracks to examine Max’s eye.
“Yeah, I shouldn’t have turned my back on him,” said Max, feeling his ears burn. “I was stupid.”
Jason dismissed the comment with a wave of his hand.
“Whatever,” he said. “That shiner’s a badge of honor! Heard you gave Muñoz a whupping that he had coming! Everyone’s heard, I think!”
Max was mortified; the same thing had happened at his last school after several bullies began teasing him after his mother’s disappearance. Max had beaten them badly and had nearly been expelled. He studied the white scars that dotted his small, hard knuckles.
“Can you please not talk about it?” he asked quietly.
“What?” said Jason, his smile disappearing. “Really?”
“Yeah.”
“All right, but do you want me to say something to Muñoz? It’s not fair for him to be picking on First Years. He’s had a whole year of training, and you guys just got here.”
“No—it’s okay,” said Max. “I can handle it.”
Jason took a step back and looked hard at Max.
“My kind of guy.” He grinned again, continuing up the stairs. “Keep ice on it!”
Max waved good-bye and poked his head into a classroom that made him forget all about his fight and Alex Muñoz.
Hazel Boon stood in the middle of what appeared to be a large forest. She spoke to a silver-haired woman wearing a gray shawl while Max’s classmates wandered wide-eyed among the towering trees, exchanging whispers.
Looking closer, Max discovered that the room was not in fact a forest; its floor was of gray-green hardwood polished to a gleaming finish. With the exception of the doorway, each of the room’s eight walls was set with a carved stone fireplace. A number of large live trees were embedded in the floor at random intervals, their branches rising high toward a pitched ceiling supported by many beams. The walls were of the same gray-green wood as the floor and inlaid with a variety of silver markings and symbols.
Miss Boon caught Max lingering near the doorway and beckoned him farther in with an impatient gesture. Max joined his classmates as they took seats in wooden chairs on an enormous Persian rug at the room’s center.
“All right, students,” said Miss Boon, “before we begin, I want to introduce a very special guest. This is Annika Kraken, Chair of the Mystics Department.”
The old woman smiled kindly at the students and gave a polite bow as the children murmured hello.
“Instructor Kraken teaches only the Fifth and Sixth Years,” continued Miss Boon. “She will be joining us from time to time, however, and will receive your utmost respect and attention when she is here.”
“You’re in good hands, children,” uttered Instructor Kraken, nodding at the younger woman. “Miss Boon is one of the very best we’ve had in all my time.”
She said farewell and moved slowly to the door, closing it quietly behind her. Miss Boon cleared her throat and began pacing around the room.
“When each of you completed the Standard Series of Tests for Potentials, you demonstrated a capacity for Mystics. Mystics can take many forms, but at its heart, it is the ability to channel and manipulate energy.
“Understand that Mystics is a highly individual discipline. No two among us are the same when it comes to our raw talents and our ability to access them. There are some Mystics who are able to draw upon tremendous stores of energy but inevitably waste much as they strive to harness and shape it. Conversely, there are some with considerably less ‘horsepower’ but who are able to utilize every last little bit. You will find that some branches of Mystics come naturally, while others are inaccessible to you. As your instructor, my goal is to help you understand your natural abilities and maximize your individual talents. Are there any questions?”
Lucia raised her hand.
“How do we know how much ‘horsepower’ we have?” she asked.
Miss Boon pinched her chin and nodded at the question.
“The Potentials test is one measure, but my research suggests it’s an imperfect one. Some who score well on that test turn out to be hopeless Mystics.”
Lucia looked hurt.
Connor raised his hand.
“Do we use wands or staves and stuff?” he asked.
Miss Boon smiled and shook her head.
“No, such tools are not necessary and can actually be dangerous,” she explained. “What’s more, they can only be made with Old Magic, and the greater ones are very, very rare. The temptations they offer are not healthy—most have been accounted for and destroyed.”
With a sudden flick of her wrist, Miss Boon ignited a lone torch on a far wall. Smoke from the torch streamed rapidly across the room and swirled about her hands as she spoke.
“No, Connor, the Mystic’s tools are their hands and the power of language. These are all that you will need to summon and shape the energies around you. This year, you will be learning the basic commands so that they become second nature.”
“Would you look at that?” breathed Connor, staring at a dark, churning copy of himself that the instructor had fashioned.
Max was speechless as the smoky figure waved good-bye to the class and walked into the nearest fireplace, disappearing up the chimney. With a dismissive flick of her wrist, Miss Boon extinguished the lit torch.
“To get you started on that path,” she said, eyeing them as they sat riveted, “I’d like you to form two single-file lines.”
Max quickly took a place in line.
“All right,” Miss Boon said with a clap, stepping around to the front. “Each of you has extinguished a fire before—it’s one of the reasons you are here. Today, you’re going to do just the opposite: you’re going to kindle a fire in one of these hearths. This will demonstrate that as a living conduit you can both absorb and channel energy. While we do this, I will be the only person talking. If anybody speaks, laughs, or causes any kind of distraction, he or she will be asked to leave. Understood?”
They nodded. The room became silent.
“Okay,” Miss Boon continued, “I’d like the first person in each line to step forward and face the fireplace in front of them.”
Two girls stepped forward.
“Spread your feet slightly apart and breathe deeply. Try to relax. I want you to take a moment and listen to the beating of your heart, feel its energy. Now I want you to feel the energy in this room, the atoms and molecules buzzing in the air. Close your eyes and picture the logs in the hearth beginning to smoke; imagine the smoke coming faster and faster until suddenly the wood ignites. Now, keep your right hand at your side and spread your fingers with the palm facing forward. Good. When I give the word, I want you to raise your arm and make a tight fist. Do you understand?”
The girls nodded, their eyes tightly closed.
“Now,” said Miss Boon, in an even tone of voice.
Both girls raised their hands and closed their fingers. Almost at once, both fireplaces began to smoke.
“Keep concentrating,” intoned Miss Boon. “Drop your arms and repeat the motion.”
The second time, one hearth showed a low flicker of bright purple flames, triggering a few exclamations from the class that Miss Boon silenced with a glance. A few wispy trickles of smoke appeared in the other hearth, but no flame.
“That’s enough, you two,” she said. “Well done. Please step to the back of the line.”
With a quick wave of her hand, both hearths looked dark and cold. Her next command was brisk.
“Next pair.”
Despite three long attempts, Rolf and Sarah failed to ignite anything. Rolf looked furious, but as other pairs went, Max saw that the task was not so easy. Only two students had been able to conjure small, sputtering flames by the time it was David and Lucia’s turn.
David patiently closed his eyes as Miss Boon guided them through the process. She signaled for them to begin.
There was a flash of light, followed by an explosion.
Max found himself thrown backward, lying on the ground, shielding his eyes from the torrents of green and gold fire that roared from David’s fireplace. Burning logs and embers smoldered on the floor, blasted clear from the hearth. The nearest edge of the Persian rug began to smoke.
David was the only student standing; the rest shrieked and scurried away as more sheets of green flame spilled out of the fireplace and swept above the mantel to singe the paneled wall above. Miss Boon’s voice rose above the fire’s roar.
“Stay down.”
Miss Boon strode forward and muttered a sharp word of command coupled with a decisive sweep of her arm.
The fire did not subside.
Narrowing her eyes, the instructor repeated her command.
Max exhaled as the fire began to dim. It gathered reluctantly into small pools of green flames before winking out entirely. The stern expression on Miss Boon’s face softened.
“Is anyone hurt?”
Max and the others murmured “No” as they pushed up from the floor. The floor and walls surrounding David’s fireplace were badly charred and smoking.
“If no one is hurt, please re-form your lines.”
David coughed and opened his eyes, looking curiously behind him where the students were slowly reassembling. Ignoring Max’s stare, David merely walked to the end of the line. Miss Boon stepped back to her position, as though nothing unusual had happened. In a terse voice, she muttered, “Next, McDaniels and Boudreaux.”
Max found it difficult to concentrate as Miss Boon led them through the steps. Although he tried to focus on his hearth, his mind kept returning to David’s disturbing display. After several minutes, exhausted from the effort, he opened his eyes. His hearth was smoking mightily, but no flame flickered within it. It was no different for the girl next to him or anyone else that followed.
When the last pair had finished, Miss Boon bade them take their seats. Lucia spoke first.
“Miss Boon?” she asked, uncharacteristically tentative. “What happened? What happened on David’s turn?”
“He kindled a flame as instructed,” was the flat reply.
“Yes, but, um, why did it explode?”
“Apparently he has lots of ‘horsepower,’ Miss Cavallo.”
After class, Max waited in the stairwell while David remained behind with Miss Boon. The windows in the hallway hummed as Old Tom chimed four o’clock and Max saw Ms. Richter climbing the stairs. She turned to him as she approached the Mystics classroom.
“Why aren’t you in Etiquette, Mr. McDaniels?” asked the Director.
“Oh. I’m waiting for David Menlo. He should be out any second.”
“He will not be,” Ms. Richter replied, opening the door. “Go on to class, Max. Tell Sir Wesley that David will be arriving late. Oh, and be sure to get more ice for that eye.”
Max stammered a good-bye; he had almost forgotten that his eye was swollen and bruised. He clambered up the stairs to the room for Etiquette. As soon as he entered, he heard a voice exclaim, “No, no, not at all. Did everybody see that?”
Max stopped and saw a tall, tanned man with a shock of white hair and a cleft chin in a cream-colored suit. The man was flanked by Max’s classmates, and his bright blue eyes were studying him intently.
“Is this David or Max?” asked Sir Alistair Wesley, suddenly plucking a silk pocket square from his breast pocket and polishing his glasses.
“Uh, Max, sir,” he said. “Uh, David will be late—Ms. Richter told me to tell you.”
“Uh, I see,” said Sir Wesley, conspicuously emphasizing the “uh” and refolding the pocket square. “As you are late and as your entrance is an example of everything not to do, we shall use you as an example. Please step back into the hallway.”
Max hesitated before retreating several steps.
“Please reenter the room.”
Max took several halting steps. Connor looked ready to burst.
“There!” exclaimed Sir Wesley. “Slumped shoulders, shifty gaze, shuffling feet. Hardly a projection of confidence, good breeding, or manners.”
The rest of the class giggled; Max was incredulous.
“We’ll try it again,” said Sir Wesley. “This time, Mr. McDaniels, I would like you to stand straight, lift up your chin, and stride confidently into the room. As you enter, I’d like you to give Sarah here a warm smile and walk over to make her acquaintance.”
“But I already know Sarah,” Max muttered, his face burning.
“Yes, I know you do. I want you to pretend that you do not. Sarah, I want you to pretend that you do not notice the rather prominent black eye exhibited by Mr. McDaniels.”
Max bit his tongue and backtracked into the hall. When called, he stood up straight and walked back into the room. He saw Sarah and tried to concentrate on her, but it was difficult with Sir Wesley’s running commentary.
“Good! No! No! Shoulders back—there, that’s it. Chin up! Don’t look so serious; you’re making a lovely young lady’s acquaintance, not battling gas!”
The class burst into laughter and Max abandoned his effort.
“All right, Mr. McDaniels, we’ll consider you a work in progress,” Sir Wesley said wearily, turning from Max to address the others. “Now, I know that today young people fancy themselves perpetually moody and angst-ridden, but let’s pretend we’re not, shall we? Any more volunteers for Scenario One: Winning Entry into an Occupied Room?”
Connor’s hand shot in the air.
“All right, Mr. Lynch. Have a go.”
Connor disappeared out into the hall. When called, he sauntered in, pausing to lean against the doorway and raise an eyebrow as he surveyed the group with a rakish smirk. Pretending to catch an initial glimpse of Sarah, he strode toward her with slow majesty. Sarah burst into giggles; Omar buried his face in his hands. Stopping several feet away, Connor gave a low bow and raised his head to flash two rows of gleaming teeth.
“Connor Lynch at your service.”
“Bravo!” roared Sir Wesley, clapping with sincere enthusiasm.
Everyone else groaned in disgust.
Max could not wait to escape from Etiquette; it had leapfrogged Mathematics as his least favorite class. He was first out the door and jogging down the stairs toward the athletic fields for Games as Old Tom chimed. M. Renard was waiting, impatient as ever as he directed them to separate facilities where they could change. When they emerged from the lockers, their instructor was bouncing a soccer ball on his foot. He motioned them over.
“First day of classes. The piggies are tired, I know. We end the day as we begin: a little hop, skip, and jump, eh? All of you know football? ‘Soccer’?” He scanned the faces as the children nodded; Max noticed David was still absent.
“Good game for the legs. Builds speed, stamina, and body control. Apprentices play lots of football at Rowan, but here you will find the conditions slightly different. Here at Rowan, we play Euclidean soccer.”
“What’s different?” asked Rolf.
“You will see as you play,” M. Renard said, allowing a little smile. “You and Sarah will pick teams. Quick, quick.”
Max was chosen first by Sarah despite warning her that he had never played organized soccer. As the game started, Sarah whizzed past Jesse with the ball, passing it deftly to another girl, who ran alongside her. Rolf crashed in and stole the ball, eluding Max and kicking a long pass downfield to Connor, who fired a hard shot toward the goal. Playing goalkeeper, Cynthia tipped the ball straight up into the air and caught it short of the net.
“Nice save!” cheered Omar from midfield.
Suddenly, the ground began to shift and bubble. Small hills and depressions started to form on the field; entire sections rose or lowered several feet to form ridges and plateaus. The children stopped and shot M. Renard a frightened look.
“It is all right,” he assured them from the sideline. “Keep playing!”
The game ended in a 0–0 tie. Rolf ’s team would have scored if a sizable mound, rising like a sudden blister, had not deflected the ball to the side just as Rolf split two defenders and aimed a shot. M. Renard blew a whistle, and the field promptly settled to a flat plane.
“That game is impossible,” complained Rolf, dribbling the ball to the sideline. “We should have won.”
“You will have to struggle, adjust, and adapt,” M. Renard said, shrugging. “That is the entire point. You played the game today on its lowest setting. Come see the older students play on a weekend; you will not think you have it so hard.”
Back in the locker room, cupping cold water over his eye, Max’s spirits fell at the thought of all he had to do that evening. He had to feed Nick, study the Greek alphabet, draw a land map of Europe, and practice kindling small blazes in his hearth. His eye throbbed. Trudging toward the Manse, all he wanted was to crawl into bed, gaze at the constellations, and sleep for a week.