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?”