There was a sudden commotion from the kitchens, and Connor came running out through one of the swinging doors.
“Not a chance!” he cried over his shoulder, leaping back into his seat.
Mum came hurtling through the door, flinging off her hairnet.
“But you’re thumbing your nose at tradition!” she cried.
Mum burst into tears and Cynthia rose to console her. The hag buried her face in Cynthia’s fleece, waving her hands wildly to shoo away the students who were calling out to her.
“What did you do?” scolded Cynthia, glaring down at Connor.
“I didn’t do anything!” pleaded Connor. “She cornered me and told me I was the ‘lucky’ Apprentice who’d been chosen to escort her to the dance!”
Max spit out his cereal. Even Cynthia stifled a chuckle as Mum wobbled her head from side to side, her shoulders shaking violently with sobs. Suddenly, Mum looked up at Cynthia, searching her face while she rubbed red, teary eyes.
“I’m hideous, aren’t I?” croaked Mum. “I trust you, Cynthia—you’re no looker yourself. Am I truly hideous?”
“No, of course not, Mum,” said Cynthia, overlooking Mum’s insult and patting her arm. “You’re unique!”
“Uniquely hideous?” croaked Mum, fixing Cynthia with a wide-eyed look of horror.
“No,” said the entire table in unison.
“Then why won’t he take me?” she whimpered, shooting a tragic glance at Connor, who hid his face in his hands.
“For one thing,” he mumbled, “you’re, like, a hundred years older than I am.”
“Connor!” exclaimed Lucia.
“What?” he asked incredulously. “Oh, and another thing—she’s a man-eating hag! Or did you all forget?”
Mum shrieked and buried her head once more into Cynthia’s fleece. Cynthia tried to comfort her by patting her hair, but stopped abruptly and examined her fingertips.
“Connor, you should ask Mum to the dance,” Cynthia said, a note of warning in her voice.
Connor gave Max a helpless look of panic; Max widened his eyes and shrugged.
“It’s the least you can do for Mum, Connor,” said Sarah. “She cooks for us every day.”
“It’s just one night,” added Cynthia.
“And it is a tradition,” added a passing Third Year with a knowing smile.
Mum peeked out from Cynthia’s fleece and peered at Connor, who was now practically slumped under the table. She screamed and started stamping her feet, her voice escalating to a painful pitch.
“Oh, it’s a fate worse than death to take Mum! She should go alone! Or better yet, don’t go at all! Just stay at home in your cupboard and keep your hideousness to yourself!”
“Fine, I’ll take you,” muttered Connor, his voice barely audible amidst Mum’s shrieks. “I said I’ll take you to the dance!”
The shrieks stopped immediately. Mum whipped around, almost knocking Cynthia off her feet.
“Why, I’d be delighted,” she said magnanimously, issuing a low curtsy. “I’ll expect you at my cupboard at seven.”
Mum strode leisurely toward the kitchen, a girlish bounce to her step.
“Don’t forget about our date, my dear,” she called over her shoulder. “I have witnesses, you know.”
Connor moaned as Mum disappeared into the kitchen with a cackle. Soon pots and pans could be heard crashing about, Mum’s shrill singing rising above the din.
“I just got a new camera for my birthday!” said Cynthia brightly. “I’ll be sure to take lots of photos!”
“Yeah,” said Max, roughing up Connor’s hair. “Sir Wesley will be so proud that his Etiquette lessons have paid off! C’mon, Mr. Mum, we need to get to the Smithy.”
Smoke poured from several chimneys jutting from the Smithy’s slate roof. It was drizzling outside; rain turned the yellow leaves to mush underfoot. Miss Boon and Mr. Vincenti were waiting for them as the class hurried down the path. The advisors each held a stack of sleek navy binders. Miss Boon sipped coffee from a stainless-steel cup and offered a prim smile as Max caught a close glimpse of the binder: THE COURSE: OPERATIONS MANUAL was stamped in silver foil on the cover.
“All right,” muttered Mr. Vincenti, scanning the group. “Good, good, everyone’s here. Welcome to my neck of the woods—our beloved Smithy. Let’s get you out of the rain—it goes without saying that you will not touch anything once inside. Your key cards and PIN numbers are enclosed in your binders—ah, there we go….”
Mr. Vincenti opened the door, and Miss Boon ushered them inside a small entryway with a metal door on their left and a large elevator straight ahead. There was another keypad next to the door.
“Now,” said Mr. Vincenti as he and Miss Boon distributed the binders, “that door leads to the workshops. No reason for you to be in there until you take Devices. This elevator’s what you want—it’ll take you down to the Course’s main level. In you go.”
Max crowded into the elevator with the others; it was beautifully paneled and surprisingly spacious.
“Hold on tight,” muttered Mr. Vincenti as the doors closed gently.
Max gripped a side railing as the elevator accelerated rapidly downward. He closed his eyes against the queasiness, focusing on the whirring sound of motors and the faint smell of machine oil. When they stopped, he was sure they must be hundreds of feet below the ground.
One by one the students stepped out into a large octagonal room with a high ceiling and gleaming walls of polished red granite. On the wall opposite was another elevator bearing the Rowan seal on its brass door. Max wandered over to look at a beautiful samurai helmet brightly lit within a glass case. He turned to the large gleaming plaque above it.
“‘The Helm of Tokugawa,’” he read, “‘awarded for outstanding leadership.’” The names of past winners were inscribed below, shining with a soft golden glow. Max turned as he felt a hand on his shoulder. Miss Boon smiled down at him.
“Come,” said Miss Boon. “I’ll show you my favorite.”
They passed by a case displaying a huge, battered gauntlet and stopped at another in which a charred stone was suspended in the air.
“This is the Founders’ Stone. It was salvaged at great cost by the refugees who fled from Solas. It’s a piece of our last school—a fragment of its cornerstone. While the other awards are given to a student who exhibits one particular quality, the Founders’ Stone is awarded to that rare student who personifies many.”
“Wow,” said Max, perusing the much shorter list and widening his eyes as he came to the last name. He turned to Miss Boon.
“Ms. Richter was the last person to win it?”
“Yes,” said Miss Boon with a solemn nod. “Ms. Richter was an outstanding student and Agent before she became Director.”
Max and Miss Boon wandered over to David, who was standing alone, gazing at a golden apple floating in another case.
“‘Bram’s Apple—awarded for sacrifice,’” David murmured. “Elias Bram. He’s the one who sacrificed himself against Astaroth so the others could flee; he was the last Ascendant.”
“That’s right, David,” said Miss Boon quietly.
“Miss Boon?” asked Max. “What is an Ascendant?”
She looked down at him but sounded distracted.
“An Ascendant is very rare, Max—especially in the last millennium. Our long-departed Bram was the last we know of for certain. Ascendants had great stores of the Old Magic in them; they were very powerful.”
Max thought of his conversation with Miss Awolowo that night on the temple’s dome; she had mentioned Old Magic might be within him. He shook off the thought as Miss Boon wandered away to another case, which contained a beautiful African belt layered with cowry shells. Max and David turned as Mr. Vincenti called them over to where he was standing in the middle of the room.
“All right, now you know why our older students work so hard. They want to win some of those awards! Never won one myself—you win one of those and you’ve done something, eh, Miss Boon? Kids, don’t let Miss Boon’s modesty fool you; she won two awards during her student days at Rowan! Which ones did you win, Hazel?”
Miss Boon flushed.