Bob looked at the children and shrugged, bending down to leave the thermos of soup by the door. Cynthia shook her head and squeezed past Bob, turning the doorknob and poking her head inside.
“Cynthia!” wheezed Bob. “He might be in the bathroom or…unclothed!”
“Oh, shush!” Cynthia replied with authority. “He’s sick and he needs people to look after him. I haven’t hiked this far in the cold to leave him a frozen thermos of soup! C’mon.”
Max, David, Connor, and Bob followed Cynthia through the doorway and into a warm room with a low ceiling. Bob’s back creaked as he ducked to avoid hitting his head on a low beam. Books were everywhere: great piles of leather tomes stuffed onto shelves, stacked in precarious towers, or scattered in seemingly random arrangements on the floor.
A low fire burned in a small fireplace while candles flickered here and there amidst winding trails of wax. Mr. Morrow was sound asleep, slumped in a cracked leather chair and buried in blankets. He did not look well; his lips were dry and there were purple circles under his eyes. His gray hair was matted to his shiny forehead.
Max turned to warm his hands at the fire when, suddenly, a familiar voice rumbled in the room.
“I’m far too fat for such tiny pallbearers.”
Max and the children jumped, but Bob’s face widened into a relieved grin.
“Ah!” exclaimed the ogre. “You are awake, Instructor. Good, good, we brought you some soup!”
Mr. Morrow fixed them with a bright eye as he drew his blanket closer.
“Most kind of you—it’ll help me take my medicine.”
“Ooh,” said Connor, stooping to examine a cup of bright green liquid sitting on an end table. “Is this some sort of magic potion?”
“Yes, my boy,” said Mr. Morrow in a hushed voice suggesting awe and mystery. “This very potion offers its brave imbiber a bevy of benefits both strange and wonderful. I give you…cough syrup!”
Cynthia, Max, and David burst into laughter as Connor set the cup down with a disappointed expression. Mr. Morrow chuckled, too, but was quickly overcome by a spasm of hacking coughs.
“How are you feeling, Mr. Morrow?” asked Cynthia. She brought over a bowl of soup poured from the thermos while the instructor pushed aside a number of spent and wadded tissues until he arrived upon his pipe. With a distracted shrug at Cynthia’s question, he lit his pipe and took a long draw.
“So, Bob,” inquired Mr. Morrow without turning his head, “how’d you persuade these four young rascals to visit this sick old bird?”
“Bob didn’t, Instructor. They let Bob come with them.”
Mr. Morrow let out a surprised grunt as Max wandered over to examine a framed photograph on the wall. The image was a younger likeness of Mr. Morrow in a fedora posing in front of the Eiffel Tower with an elegant young woman. Max thought suddenly of the carving he had seen on a tree in town: “Byron loves Elaine ’46.”
“Ahhh, Mr. McDaniels. Are you admiring my pretty lady?” asked Mr. Morrow.
“Yes, sir.”
“That’s my wife, Elaine. Cancer got her.”
“I’m sorry,” said Max awkwardly.
Mr. Morrow shook his head impatiently and cleared his throat.
“Don’t be. It was her time. Everyone should be so lucky as to find his matched pair in this world. I’m grateful for the years we had.”
Cynthia stepped over to the photograph.
“Mr. Morrow!” she said. “You were a handsome devil! Look at you in that suit!”
“Very handsome,” intoned Bob in agreement, stooping lower to examine the photo over their shoulders.
“Oh, stop it!” Mr. Morrow chuckled. “You’ll make this fat old thing too vain for his own good. That photograph should be in the Smithsonian!” He looked into the fire, but Max saw that he was pleased.
“Who’s this?” asked David, picking up a frame perched on a pile of books. In it was a yellowed photograph of a young man in a military uniform.
“Oh, that’s my son. Arthur,” said Mr. Morrow quietly. “That’s him right after he joined the Marines. Lost him, too—his entire platoon, as a matter of fact.”
Cynthia made a furious gesture at David to put the photograph down.
“It’s all right, Cynthia,” said Mr. Morrow with an understanding smile. “I’m flattered that you children take an interest in my family.” He motioned for David to hand him the photograph.
“The politicians chose war and he chose it, too,” said Mr. Morrow, studying the photo. “I didn’t understand. It’s strange, really. My whole life has been consumed with the study of war—of kingdoms that rise and fall with fire and sword. It all seems very glorious until it swallows up someone you love. Life is too precious a thing to throw away on orders and absurd chains of command.”
He put aside the picture and turned back to his soup, spilling a bit onto his robe. David looked depressed. Bob made a steadying gesture with his hand, cleaning up the used tissues that lay in little piles around the chair. Mr. Morrow looked up once more.
“Come now—if I’m to suffer visitors, then the least they can do is offer news! What are the happenings on campus? How’s Hazel managing with my classes? Have they found those stolen children yet? Missing Potentials is serious business—”
“Instructor,” warned Bob, dropping a porcelain cup he’d been washing. “They are not supposed to—”
“Not supposed to know?” exclaimed Mr. Morrow. “You mean Gabrielle still hasn’t told them the dangers despite all her promises? That’s outrageous! It’s—it’s unconscionable!”
“What are you talking about?” Cynthia asked quietly. “What ‘stolen children’?”
“We should be going,” said Bob, reaching for his coat and motioning to the others. “We will visit again soon.”
“No, Bob,” said Cynthia. “I want to hear this.”
“You must hear this,” growled Mr. Morrow, sitting up in his chair with a fierce look. The ogre sighed and peered out the window. “It’s your right and responsibility to know the dangers you face. Do any of you know anything about this?”
Max and David glanced at each other. The wind raged outside the cottage; drafts scurried through cracks, causing the candles to flicker. Ignoring David’s little shake of the head, Max spoke up.
“I do.”
“What do you know, my boy?” grumbled Mr. Morrow, giving Max his full attention.
“I know that some children—Potentials—have been taken by the Enemy all over the world,” said Max, speaking carefully. “I know another kid, someone named Mickey Lees, was supposed to be in our class. I guess he was last seen with Miss May, who…who died.”
The room was very still; Mr. Morrow looked tired and sad.
“And how do you know this, Max?” asked Mr. Morrow.
“I overheard Ms. Richter talking about it in the Sanctuary. And because the Enemy tried to take me, too.”
Cynthia and Connor gasped; David looked irritated and stared into the fire. Leaning back in his chair, Mr. Morrow jabbed an authoritative finger at Max.
“You tell me everything, McDaniels.”
For the next ten minutes, he related his encounter with Mrs. Millen. Mr. Morrow puffed thoughtfully on his pipe, shushing the others when they tried to ask questions. Max glanced at Bob, but the ogre appeared lost in his own thoughts. When Max had finished, Mr. Morrow fixed him with a frank look.
“You’re lucky to be alive. Your ‘Mrs. Millen’ was almost certainly a vye.”
Max’s stomach contracted into an icy clump.
“What’s a vye?” he asked.
“A shape-shifter,” explained Mr. Morrow. “Very crafty. Tough to detect and, according to our Agents in the field, appearing in greater numbers. Their real form is terrifying.”
“Does a vye look like a werewolf?” Connor piped from near the fire. His face looked drawn and frightened.
Mr. Morrow fixed him with a peculiar, penetrating glance.