“Uh, okay. Thanks!”
The goose raised a white-feathered wing in farewell as she herded her goslings toward the lagoon.
Scraps of bark began to fall on Max. He looked up to see Nick sharpening his claws and peering down at him. Yawning dramatically, the lymrill suddenly leapt up to a higher branch and began to send more bark at Max.
“Oh, all right, I’m coming!” Max sighed, grabbing a limb and hoisting himself up. A few minutes later, Max was at eye level with Nick, who fluttered his tail with pleasure.
“Hey there,” panted Max, finding a perch at the base of a thick branch. Nick circled Max’s lap and curled into a ball, nibbling on the end of his tail. His quills smoothed to a metallic taper. Within seconds, he was fast asleep, his broad black nose whistling as he breathed slow and steady. Max eased a stray claw off his leg and looked out over the Sanctuary. Being in the tree reminded him of his fort back in Chicago. He watched raindrops patter on the outer leaves, thinking how his mother would laugh if she could see him.
Since Nick showed no sign of stirring, Max leaned back and flipped open his booklet:
Lymrill (also known as: Kingmaker and Roland’s Folly)
Mystic tree-dwelling mammal found in Central and Western Europe. Identified by its compact size, sharp claws, thick fur, and metallic quills, which possess valuable properties.
Prized for its pelt, the lymrill was hunted to near extinction by knights and kings who believed its skin could be used to forge armor and weapons of unsurpassed hardness. Legends suggest that the lymrill must surrender its quills willingly, lest the animal die and its pelt lose its reputed properties. Last known specimen was captured on the Iberian Peninsula by the famed warrior Roland who coveted its magic but inadvertently slew the animal in his impatience for its quills.
Lymrills are considered intelligent, displaying an ability to communicate with—
Max stopped reading as he heard voices below. He looked down and saw Ms. Richter arrive from the clearing to meet Miss Awolowo, Nigel, and two other adults at the tunnel entrance. Ms. Richter sounded agitated.
“What’s the latest news on Lees?”
“We know he made it to the airport,” muttered Nigel, sweeping wet hair off his brow. “It appears he simply never landed. Isabella insists he never got off the plane at Logan.”
“What of the others?”
“All signs say that they’re gone, Director.” Max squinted to make out a young woman in a gray raincoat and glasses. “Disappeared shortly after they triggered their letters. They’ve all been reported missing within their communities.”
Ms. Richter’s tone was sharp and brisk.
“Exactly how many children are missing, Ndidi?”
“Mickey Lees, who passed the tests two weeks ago, and seventeen Potentials who haven’t yet taken them,” said Miss Awolowo. “The last Potential disappeared three days ago in Lima.”
“And how many paintings have been stolen, Hazel?”
“Fifty-two,” said the woman in the raincoat. “But the thefts seem to be somewhat random. We can’t conclusively say that the Enemy is involved.”
“Joseph, do we have any reason to suspect internal treachery? How was Isabella’s last performance review?”
“Hmmm, always possible, always possible,” answered an elderly man in a burgundy sweater. “But I don’t think so, Gabrielle. Isabella’s never been our best, but you know as well as I do that she’s trustworthy.”
“Nigel,” said Ms. Richter, turning suddenly.
“Yes, Director?”
“You believe McDaniels has shared everything with you? Everything about that woman at the house? And everything about Varga?”
“Yes, I do believe he did.”
“Hmmm. I’ll still need to interview him. I do believe that you and Ndidi may be right about him, however. David Menlo, too. What this means is anybody’s guess. These missing children, however, require more than guesswork. Assume nothing—about the children or the paintings! I’ll expect more information by tomorrow morning.”
Ms. Richter turned and started back for the Warming Lodge while the others disappeared into the hedge tunnel. Frowning, Max watched Ms. Richter stride across the clearing.
“Nick, something is very, very wrong.”
7
A FULL HOUSE
Upon returning to the Manse, the First Years were divided into five sections. Max’s section was directed upstairs to the Bacon Library, where the wet children crowded round the fireplace. The library was located on the third floor and faced south, where Max could see a large athletic field. Turning away from the window, he scanned the stacks, seeing sections dedicated to philosophy, the arts, and literature. Thousands of books lined the shelves.
While some of his classmates were soaked, Max was merely damp; he and Nick had stayed up in the tree until they heard Old Tom’s chimes. The class had left their new charges with Nolan before dashing through the gate to escape the rain that had begun falling in heavy sheets.
The door to the library opened, and in walked the young woman and old man Max had seen speaking to Ms. Richter. The man had a patient face, thick glasses, and a trim white beard. The woman was much younger with short brown hair. She was pretty but looked very serious and scholarly behind small, rectangular glasses as she leafed through a stack of papers.
“All right, children, gather round,” said the man, looking up.
With some reluctance, the students pulled away from the warm fire and took closer seats. David coughed in fits, rubbing his nose.
“Are you David?” asked the man.
David nodded.
“Perhaps you’d better stay near the fire,” said the man with a kindly smile, before turning to address the group.
“Hello. I’m Joseph Vincenti and this is Hazel Boon. Among the faculty, I’m the Department Chair of Devices and Miss Boon is a Junior Instructor of Mystics.”
Max glanced at Miss Boon; her name was familiar. Suddenly, he remembered Nigel had mentioned that she held the modern record for extinguishing flames when she had been tested as a Potential. She sat patiently, her arms folded.
“As your class advisors we’re here to look after you, to make sure you’re progressing as you should be. We’ll be your advisors until you begin to specialize at the end of your third year—at that point you’ll have an advisor within your specialty. Miss Boon?”
Miss Boon looked up, and Max was startled to see that her pupils were different colors; one was brown, the other a brilliant blue. She looked at the students with a solemn expression. Max squirmed as her gaze lingered on him.
“Hello there. I feel very privileged to have been assigned your class advisor—you’re my first class. The Recruiters have raved about you, and consequently I expect great things. Great things require real work, however, so without further ado, allow me to distribute your course schedules.”
Circling the table, Miss Boon handed out the laminated sheets. Max shook his head in disbelief. The room was nearly silent for fifteen minutes while the students examined their schedules with gasps and quiet mutters. Cynthia was the first to raise her hand.
“Am I reading this right? It says my day starts at six thirty in the morning and that I’m taking almost ten classes in addition to taking care of my charge.”
“That is correct,” replied Miss Boon, walking over to stoke the fire. “Rowan has a challenging curriculum, and certain disciplines, like Physical Training, Languages, and Mystics, must be done each day.”