His father blinked as if waking from a dream.
“Not if the Fowl men have something to say about it, eh, son? It’s time for you to earn that reputation of yours.” Artemis Senior’s eyes were bright with desperation. “Whatever we have to do, son. Whatever it takes.”
Artemis felt panic welling up inside him.
Whatever we have to do?
Be calm, he told himself. You have the power to fix this.
Artemis did not yet have all the facts, but nonetheless he was reasonably confident that whatever was wrong with his mother could be healed with a burst of fairy magic. And he was the only human on Earth with that magic running through his system.
“Father,” he said gently. “Has the doctor left?”
For a moment the question seemed to puzzle Artemis Senior; then he remembered. “Left? No. He is in the lobby. I thought you might talk to him. Just in case there’s a question I may have missed. . . .”
Artemis was only mildly surprised to find Dr. Hans Schalke, Europe’s leading expert on rare diseases, in the lobby, and not the usual family practitioner. Naturally his father would have sent for Schalke when Angeline Fowl’s condition began to deteriorate. Schalke waited below the filigreed Fowl crest, a hard-skinned Gladstone bag standing sentry by his ankles like a giant beetle. He was belting a gray raincoat across his waist and speaking to his assistant in sharp tones.
Everything about the doctor was sharp, from the arrowhead of his widow’s peak to the razor edges of his cheekbones and nose. Twin ovals of cut glass magnified Schalke’s blue eyes, and his mouth slashed downward from left to right, barely moving as he talked.
“All of the symptoms,” he said, his accent muted German, “on all of the databases, you understand?”
His assistant, a petite young lady in an expensively cut gray suit, nodded several times, tapping the instructions onto the screen of her smartphone.
“Universities too?” she asked.
“All,” said Schalke, accompanying the word with an impatient nod. “Did I not say all? Do you not understand my accent? Is it because I am from Germany coming?”
“Sorry, Doctor,”the assistant said contritely.“All, of course.”
Artemis approached Dr. Schalke, hand outstretched. The doctor did not return the gesture.
“Contamination, Master Fowl,” he said without a trace of apology or sympathy. “We have not determined whether your mother’s condition is contagious.”
Artemis curled his fingers into his palm, sliding the hand behind his back. The doctor was right, of course.
“We have never met, Doctor. Would you be so good as to describe my mother’s symptoms?”
The doctor huffed, irritated. “Very well, young man, but I am not accustomed to dealing with children, so there will be no sugarcoating.”
Artemis swallowed, his throat suddenly dry.
Sugarcoating.
“Your mother’s condition is possibly unique,” said Schalke, banishing his assistant to her work with a shake of his fingers.“From what I can tell, her organs seem to be failing.”
“Which organs?”
“All of them,” said Schalke. “I need to bring equipment here from my laboratory at Trinity College. Obviously your mother cannot be moved. My assistant, Imogen, Miss Book, will monitor her until my return. Miss Book is not only my publicist but an excellent nurse. A useful combination, wouldn’t you say?”
In his peripheral vision, Artemis saw Miss Book scurry around a corner, stammering into her smartphone. He hoped the publicist/nurse would display more confidence when caring for his mother.
“I suppose. All my mother’s organs? All of them?”
Schalke was not inclined to repeat himself. “I am reminded of lupus, but more aggressive, combined with all three stages of Lyme disease. I did observe an Amazonian tribe once with similar symptoms, but not so severe. At this rate of decline, your mother has days left to her. Frankly, I doubt we will have time to complete tests. We need a miracle cure, and in my considerable experience, miracle cures do not exist.”
“Perhaps they do,” said Artemis absently.
Schalke picked up his bag. “Put your faith in science, young man,” advised the doctor. “Science will serve your mother better than some mysterious force.”
Artemis held the door for Schalke, watching him walk the dozen steps to his vintage Mercedes-Benz. The car was gray, like the bruised clouds overhead.
There is no time for science, thought the Irish teenager. Magic is my only option.
When Artemis returned to his study, his father was sitting on the rug with Beckett crawling along his torso like a monkey.
“May I see Mother now?” Artemis asked him.
“Yes,” said Artemis Senior. “Go now, see what you can find out. Study her symptoms for your search.”
My search, thought Artemis. There are difficult times ahead.