He stepped past them and gasped.
“Oh, this is wonderful! Much more inspiring than my old room! I begged to switch the god-awful thing. You would, too, if you’d gotten a Mongolian yurt!”
Max and David savored their triumph as Nigel poked around, muttering the occasional “Would you look at that!” and “Those lucky devils!”
Connor Lynch stepped in after Nigel and stood gaping at the ceiling. His bright blue eyes blinked in wonder, and he delivered an impressed thumbs-up to Max and David before stepping back into the hallway. A minute later, Nigel sauntered up the steps, shaking his head and scowling at the two of them.
“I don’t want to hear even a peep of complaint from you two for the next six years! Oh, my wife would kill for those bookcases, you scoundrels! I’ll never understand how this old Manse works.” He threw his hands up with feigned disgust, brushing past them into the hallway, where the others were now darting in packs to explore the various rooms in a chorus of shouts and slamming doors. Max and David peered in at a medieval bedchamber high atop a tower and a Japanese temple before stumbling into a very plain room across the hall.
They looked around in awkward silence. Connor was lingering in the room alone; his roommates had apparently left to explore. The only sounds came from a small fire sputtering in a modest brick hearth. The room was not any bigger than the bare room Max had entered before the configuration. Narrow wooden bunk beds were stacked beneath a low, flat ceiling of dark beams. The room was otherwise furnished with only one small desk and a red rocker positioned near the fireplace. Two small windows were cut through the plaster walls. They looked onto a lazy, sunlit meadow dotted with wildflowers.
Nigel poked his head in and broke the silence.
“A cozy little nook to hang your hat in, eh, Mr. Lynch?”
“Yeah, Nigel, home sweet home. Not a traffic-stopper, but it’ll do.”
Connor hopped up onto one of the top bunks and dangled his legs over the side, grinning at them defiantly. Max liked him immediately.
“C’mon, boys,” said Nigel. “Help me round up the others, and let’s get back to the foyer.”
Nigel hurried down the hall as Max, David, and Connor looked down into a sunken room that appeared to be the captain’s quarters of a luxurious galleon. Three large portholes showed a distant sunset and dark blue waves lapped at the glass. The room’s four occupants were laughing as they sat on the cozy beds that were sunk into deep alcoves. Sea chests and old maps and bright yellow lanterns were scattered about. Connor spoke up just as a brightly colored fish leapt past one of the portholes.
“Hey—Nigel wants us out there. Come on.”
The boys nodded and took turns climbing up the brass ladder.
“Honestly,” said Connor as they filed past, “if any of you boys get the wobblies down there, just let me know and we can swap out. You there!” He shot a finger at the last boy to climb out. “You’re lookin’ awfully pasty. We should probably switch rooms, mate.”
“Never!” shouted the boy, running after Nigel.
Connor sighed and fell in step with Max and David. By this time, Nigel had managed to gather most of the class back near the staircase.
“Right, then, congratulations on completing your configurations. You’re a lucky lot, you know. Some of the chaps in my class got stuck with a dungeon, a moldy wine cellar, and a chicken roost!”
“But, Nigel,” said a boy, “how did the rooms change? Did you change them?”
Nigel shook his head.
“Dear me, no. This is Old Magic—far older and far stronger than anything Nigel Bristow can conjure up. But more of the Manse and Old Magic after dinner.”
The chimes began just as Nigel herded them down the stairs.
5
EVILS OLD AND NEW
The boys and girls met outside by the fountain, where room configurations were discussed in a buzz of competing voices. Max found it hard to keep track as he overheard breathless girls talking about a pharaoh’s throne room carved with hieroglyphics and snug lodges in the mountains. Nigel stood near him looking bemused while Miss Awolowo shielded a tall, plump red-haired girl from the onrush of a petite black-haired girl who stabbed an accusatory finger while muttering in her native language. The red-haired girl looked miserable.
“What happened with them?” Max asked Nigel.
“Oh—happens every year. Roommates blaming one another for how their rooms turned out during the configuration. My Italian’s atrocious, but I believe Lucia is upset over the leaky hovel they’ll be sharing. Thinks it’s all Cynthia’s fault—something about an English preference for miserable weather…”
Nigel frowned and glanced at Max.
“That last part’s not true, by the way. We merely cope with miserable weather—we cope out of sheer necessity!”
Miss Awolowo restored order with a calm snippet in Italian that left Lucia in smoldering silence. Nigel took his leave as Miss Awolowo addressed the group.
“All right. Now that the configurations are complete—Lucia, stop that!—we’ll take a brief tour of Rowan’s grounds before we have supper. If you’d please follow me to the orchard…”
They walked around to the back of the Manse, passing between low hedges thick with flowers, and arriving at a large stone patio. Just beyond the patio, separated by a strip of lawn, were long rows of apple trees. Max walked along with Connor and David as Miss Awolowo gathered the group by the closest tree.
“The apples!” a girl exclaimed. “They’re made of gold!”
Max looked up to see a number of small apples that appeared to be cast of gold. Jesse Chu slipped past Max and stood on his tiptoes to reach one of them.
“Do not touch that apple!”
Jesse recoiled as if he had been stung. Miss Awolowo slipped past several students, lifting the hem of her dress above the grass.
“Forgive me for startling you, Jesse, but these trees are sacred. Let me explain a bit about the Rowan orchard. Omar, will you please read that plaque for me?”
A dark-skinned, studious-looking boy with glasses bent down and read the stone tablet embedded at the base of the tree.
“Fiat Lux—Class of 1653.”
“Thank you. Does anyone know the expression or why we are looking at this tree?”
A tall blond boy, whose nametag said he was Rolf from Düsseldorf, raised his hand. Max thought he must be at least fourteen.
“Fiat Lux is Latin,” Rolf said in a heavy German accent. “It’s translated ‘Let there be light.’ According to the brochure, 1653 is when Rowan graduated its first class.”
Miss Awolowo smiled; the boy looked very pleased with himself.
“Very good, Rolf—correct on both counts. This is a sacred tree—a Class Tree representing Rowan’s very first graduating class. They chose Fiat Lux for their class motto, as they arrived here in a time of great darkness. There is a sacred tree in this orchard for every class at Rowan.
“Every year, a Class Tree will bear one apple for each living member of that class. When a member of that class has passed on, his or her apple turns to gold. Thus we remember them, and these apples we do not touch. Take a few moments and walk among them.”
Fanning out with the others, Max threaded his way through the rows of trees whose golden apples gleamed brightly in the summer sun. He tried to imagine the people they represented and what they had made of their lives. After a few moments, he noticed that gold glinted from most of the trees, including some of the younger ones.
Miss Awolowo called, and they continued through the orchard and into a dense wood of ash, oak, maple, and beech. Sunlight twinkled through the leaves as they followed a meandering path through the trees before stopping at a long, low building set in a small clearing. Its windows were dark, but small puffs of white smoke issued from a chimney.