“Why not?” asked David. “Isn’t your dad expecting you?”
Max hesitated. He had promised both Nigel and Ms. Richter that he wouldn’t tell anyone about his encounters with Mrs. Millen. But the image of his father standing before a fireplace with three empty stockings flashed through his head. Max sat up, his eyes flashing with anger.
Over the next hour, he told David everything.
The wonders and horrors spilled out of him like water from a broken faucet; he told of the tapestry and Ronin and Mrs. Millen and the conversation he overheard about missing Potentials and stolen paintings. David said very little while Max talked; he simply hugged his knees and listened intently until Max had finished.
“Well, things make a lot more sense now,” said David finally. “Really big things are happening,” he said simply. “Or about to happen. It’s been written up there for a while.” He pointed up at the small constellations winking in and out of sight. “I’m sorry you’re not going home, but at least I get to have some company over the break.”
Max stared at him.
“Why aren’t you going home?”
David’s face lost its little smile, and he walked downstairs to retrieve a small bundle of letters. Max recognized David’s handwriting on the envelopes. Each was stamped RETURN TO SENDER.
David’s voice was quiet and calm. “My mom moved away.”
“Well, where did she move?” asked Max.
“I don’t know—she didn’t leave a forwarding address.”
Max sat up as David began coughing.
“I knew she would,” continued David when the coughing stopped. “I knew she’d leave once she was sure I’d found another home. It was just the two of us, and she really couldn’t take care of me…. She wasn’t well.”
David wrapped the rubber band back around the letters, and Max stared at the little bundle of envelopes. His own sense of injustice and outrage began to diminish.
“David, I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” said David. “Ms. Richter told me to consider Rowan my home, but she didn’t need to. I already did. I’m sorry you can’t spend Christmas with your dad, but Ms. Richter’s actually right—you’re both probably safer if you stay here until they figure everything out.” He glanced back up at the glass dome. “There’s still some stuff I haven’t figured out, either.”
“Like what?” asked Max, swinging his legs over the bed.
“Everything you told me makes sense based on what I can see. But didn’t Ms. Richter say Astaroth was defeated?”
“Yeah,” said Max uneasily. He stood and glanced up at the glass dome. He saw a moon, white dots, and pretty constellations. But David seemed to read them like a book—a very important book.
“His symbol is all over the place,” David said quietly. “Astaroth might have been defeated, but I don’t think he was destroyed.”
Mr. McDaniels did not arrive at Rowan the next day; no police came to restore Max to his father. Instead, Max received a phone call during which his cheerful father expressed sincere but supportive regret that Max needed to stay at Rowan over the holidays. Max was assured that his presents had been shipped express and that Mr. McDaniels would be thinking of him every minute.
Late that morning, Max ran into Mr. Vincenti in the dining hall; his advisor was finishing a roll and perusing the newspaper. On the front page, Max saw that yet another painting had been stolen.
“Did you speak to your father?” asked Mr. Vincenti.
“Yeah,” said Max, still puzzling over the conversation. “Everything’s fine. What did you do?”
Mr. Vincenti folded the newspaper and sighed.
“We had to influence his memory and feelings a bit.” Seeing Max’s face, he added quickly, “Not his feelings about you—just his perspective about you staying here over the holidays. They were very strong. He loves you very much.”
The strange conversation left Max feeling mixed. On the one hand he was relieved that his father did not seem to remember the awful things Max had said; on the other, it was disturbing that a seemingly minor intervention could alter his father’s memories and attitude. He tried to shake it off, running his hand up the banister wound with mistletoe and holly.
David was upstairs in the foyer, tying his scarf.
“Going to feed Maya,” he said. “Want to come?”
Minutes later, the two were crunching through the snow on their way to the Sanctuary. It had snowed throughout the night, and everything was encased in a glistening white blanket.
The Warming Lodge was very snug in the winter. Sunlight streamed in from windows high along the walls, and the building smelled of fresh hay and sanded wood. Nick was sound asleep, but Maya was not. Like a silver gazelle, she walked in graceful circles around her stall while David ordered a small box of food from the feeding bin. When David opened the door, Maya glided past him and came directly to Max. She rested her smooth silver head against his hip and craned her neck to look up at him with eyes like almonds cast of gold. Max felt his spirits lift; the weariness and sorrow drained away, and he was filled with a sense of peace and well-being.
“What exactly is Maya again?” asked Max, quietly stroking her ears.
“She’s an ulu,” said David, leading Max and Maya toward the door. “Her kind brings quiet and understanding. She might be the last one left, though—they almost went extinct in the nineteenth century all because their skins and horns are beautiful and their blood’s rumored to hold the secret to any language. Collectors and scholars and scientists wanted them.”
Max was incredulous; he could not imagine anyone wanting to hunt or hurt or kill anything so graceful and giving. Maya shivered once as she stepped gingerly out onto the snow, before dipping her head into the little box of fruits and grasses.
When Maya was finished, David and Max took her for a long walk in the Sanctuary, choosing paths that Max had never taken before. They climbed high in the woods, listening to drips of water and the strange calls of many birds. Suddenly, a large drift of snow came spilling down a slope.
Max looked up and caught his breath.
YaYa was sprawled above them, on a bluff overlooking their path. Her black lioness face was matted with blood and steam rose off her body; the hoof of a very large animal was visible beneath her in a trampled bed of pinkish snow. YaYa peered at them, sniffing the crisp air. Max saw his own reflection in her huge pearly eyes as she spoke in her strange voice that sounded of several women.
“Solstice greetings to you, Maya. Greetings, children.”
She dipped the broken horn atop her head in salute.
“Hello, YaYa,” said David. “I was hoping to find you.”
Max glanced at his roommate; David had mentioned nothing to him.
“Were you, child? Let me come down.” The huge ki-rin stood and nuzzled her face clean in the snow before descending the slope. Max stood silent; encountering YaYa in the wild was a far different experience from passing by her as she snored beneath blankets in the Warming Lodge.
“YaYa, was Astaroth destroyed?” asked David.
YaYa stepped forward; her whiskered chin came to a stop right above Max’s head.
“Why do you ask YaYa this?” chimed YaYa’s voices.
“Because you are the Great Matriarch of Rowan. Only you remember Solas in its glory; only you remember the light that rose up against the darkness when Astaroth came.”
The words flowed from David in a lilting cant that made Max feel sleepy. He stood quietly and stroked Maya’s silvery withers.
YaYa crouched and settled her great bulk onto the path. “Did you know you are just like him?” she asked after a long silence. “The words and spirit of my master echo in your young voice.”
“Who was your master?” asked David. “I did not know the Great Matriarch could have one.”