The Second Siege (27 page)

The ward was quiet, however.The only sounds were the occasional crackle in the hearth and the soft
tap-tap-tap
as herbs and roots and berries were patiently measured and mortared by the Moomenhovens. A loud, warbling snore joined in. Max reached across David’s feet to nudge his father, who lay sprawled across a chair of worn brown leather. With a rumble, Mr. McDaniels flicked a crumb from his chin and continued to snore in a majestic baritone. Max quietly packed up the checkers board and retrieved a nibbled sandwich that had fallen from his father’s hand to lodge against the armrest. The soft tapping ceased. The Moomenhovens put down their things and swiveled their heads toward the door. A loud, authoritative voice was coming down the hallway.

Bellagrog burst through the double doors followed by Connor, Sarah, and an anxious-looking Mum. In the weeks since Max had last seen her, Bellagrog had ballooned to enormous proportions. The hag swaggered into the room behind a belly that protruded far beyond the jut of her chin. Beetle-bright eyes took in the room at a glance; gray cheeks flushed pink with pleasure as she spied the McDanielses.

“There they are!” she bellowed with a whoop and a wave. Mr. McDaniels awoke with a snort and blinked at the hag, who now advanced upon them with tottering glee. “You don’t call, you don’t write, but ya can’t hide from yer Auntie Mum!” crowed Bellagrog, wrenching Max out of his chair to crush him against her padded hip. “There’s some what said you were goners, but I told ’em all to shut their yappers—my boys would be coming home right soon, and with buried treasure to boot! Bwahahahaha!”

A Moomenhoven planted herself before Bellagrog and put a finger to her lips. The hag scowled.

“What? Making too much noise, am I? Well, pardon a girl for being happy to see the McDaniels boys and little Davie here.” Rolling her eyes, Bellagrog stabbed a finger at a trembling patient who peered out at the commotion from beneath a tented sheet. “Oi! You there! Am I botherin’ ya? Am I interferin’ with yer
healin’
? Bwahahahaha!”

The patient shook her head vigorously and disappeared beneath her blanket. With a throaty chuckle, the hag rounded on the Moomenhoven and swung a meaty arm about her shoulders. “See? Take a load off, girlie—I got everything under control. You just clippety-clop right back to yer nice cozy chair and let me see my boys.” Her crocodile eye narrowed as she massaged the Moomenhoven’s neck with fat, bandaged fingers. “You lot live on the fourth floor, don’tcha? Past the painting of the skinny milkmaids and the door with the rickety lock what needs fixin’?”

“Bel,” Mum pleaded.

The Moomenhoven glanced at the others and swallowed.

“Thought so,” said Bellagrog, scratching casually at her belly. “You Moomies sure are deep sleepers. . . .”

Horrified, the Moomenhoven hurried away to the protective embrace of her sisters. With a satisfied snort, Bellagrog plopped onto the foot of David’s bed, giving the sleeping boy a passing sniff as she reached out to lovingly squeeze Mr. McDaniels’s foot.

“I tried to stop her,” explained Mum sheepishly.

“Heard you found Cousin Gertrude,” interrupted Bellagrog, abandoning Mr. McDaniels’s foot to peer intently at David’s wrap. “Can’t say I didn’t see it comin’ for ol’ Gertie—didn’t know her noggin from her caboose, that one! Bwahahahaha!”

“We’re . . . eh . . . very sorry about your cousin,” offered Mr. McDaniels.

“Don’t be, love,” said Bellagrog with a dismissive wave. “You ain’t got anything to be sorry about. It’s Bea here who ought to be ashamed. To think, a Shrope within’ spittin’ distance of the man who done it, and she don’t even lift a finger!”

“I tried,” snapped Mum. “There was lots happening—the timing wasn’t right!”

“Well, it’s out of your hands now, ain’t it?” replied Bellagrog coolly.

“You know, we never would have made it without Mum,” volunteered Max.

“That’s true,” said Mr. McDaniels, sitting up. “She sniffed out a vye in Spain.”

“And heard the trucks coming in the Black Forest,” added Max.

“And did some pretty fast talking with the goblins,” said Scott McDaniels.

“Did she now?” asked Bellagrog, eyeing her sister.

“I did!” exclaimed Mum, nodding enthusiastically. She paced excitedly, twiddling her fingers. “You should have
seen
me, Bel! We were surrounded by ’em—vyes everywhere! Goblins, too! And handsome sailors! And what did I do when they started yammering? Well, I started a-head-buttin’ and lettin’ ’em all know that ol’ Bea meant business!”

While Mum leapt to and fro, pantomiming fictitious exploits, Sarah and Connor pulled up chairs. Connor clapped Max on the back and began peppering the McDanielses with questions.

“Is David going to be okay?”

“Where did you get that plane?”

“What’s happening outside?”

“Is it true you saw Astaroth?”

Max and his father tried their best to answer. Sarah listened eagerly, elbows propped on her knees, but Connor was impatient. The Irish boy was so eager for information that he interrupted them several times in his hurry to clarify points or ask follow-up questions. Sarah flicked him in the ribs.

“Give them a minute to catch their breaths,” she said, giving Max an apologetic shrug. “He’s been like this ever since we got our first-quarter grades,” she explained. “Seems to think he’s the only one capable of solving a problem. Mind your own business, Connor.”

“Well, it’s everyone’s business, isn’t it?” replied Connor indignantly. “For example, I heard you went off looking for something of Elias Bram’s. Is that true?”

“Well, yeah,” said Max, “but at first it was to get away from the witches. I guess there’s a lot you don’t know.”

“See?”
said Connor, glaring at Sarah. “Did you get whatever you were looking for?”

“Yeah,” said Max, “I think so.”

“Where is it?” asked Connor.

“We gave it to Ms. Richter—I think the scholars are studying it in the Archives,” said Max.

“Wherever
they
happen to be,” Connor added with a sour huff and a glare at Max. Connor had been peevish when Max had shared few details of his previous visit with Commander Vilyak.

Bellagrog pricked up an ear and turned from Mum’s caperings. “The secret place with lots of books and blokes with beards?” she asked.

Connor whirled about.

“You’ve been there?” he asked. “You know where it is?”

“Course I do,” replied the hag, picking at her bandaged fingers. “Followed a teacher down, didn’t I? Coulda conked him on the crown and had him in a pot for all he knew! Bwahahahaha! Couldn’t get in proper, but I got a peek all right.”

“Why couldn’t you get in?” asked Connor earnestly.

“Some big ol’ boys stepped right in front o’ me when I tried to slip past,” she said. “Thought they was statues. Scared the daylights out of me—nearly filled up me bloomers!”

“Bel,” hissed Mum, “you shouldn’t be snooping around the campus—the Archives are off-limits.”

“Well, ain’t you a sweet, obedient thing,” teased Bellagrog. “Bea Shrope confined to her cupboard! Don’t go sniffing outside your cupboard, Bea! Dearie me, you might get a
scoldin’
! Sheesh—I’m surprised you ain’t bottled up like Gertie!”

“Bellagrog, what did you do to your hand?” asked Max, changing the subject.

The hag scowled and thrust forth her bandaged fingers for all to see. “That bloody goose pecked me, she did! Here I am trying to make sure her wee ones don’t go wanderin’ off into the woods and she comes flying in outta nowhere, all feathers and beak. Crazy stinkin’ bird.”

“Ah,” said Max, privately congratulating Hannah.

“Anyway,” said Sarah, “we came up here to see you all and to see if Max wants to go to classes with us.”

“That’s nice of you,” said Mr. McDaniels. “And I think it’s a good idea. Go on, Max—I can stay here with David.”

“Actually, love,” said Bellagrog, cocking an eye at Max’s father, “we need
you
in the kitchens. Lots of new mouths to feed, you know. Refugees and stragglers showin’ up by the score every hour. Bob sent me to see if you could lend a hand—breakfasts, lunches, and don’t forget the Yuletide feast’s a-coming!”

“Oh,” said Mr. McDaniels. “Well, I don’t know . . .”

“Little Davie ain’t going nowhere,” said Bellagrog, shambling over to hover above David’s peaceful face. Fat fingers pried David’s eyelids open; the hag peered intently at his bright blue irises. “You going anywhere, love? No? Okay, then, be a good boy and stay right here. Bwahahahaha!”

The hag smoothed David’s hair and sniffed him several times, squeezing his cheek with slack-jawed distraction, before suddenly striding off toward the door with the brisk air of a busy foreman.

“See you down in the kitchens, love,” Bellagrog called over her shoulder. “Muffins and marmalade if you’re quick; cinders sweepin’ if ya dawdle!” With an apologetic curtsy to the huddled Moomenhovens, Mum scurried out after her sister.

Max bowed his head beneath a heavy jet of hot water in the third-floor bathroom. Over the sound of the water, he heard Jimmy’s merry singing as the odd little bathroom attendant straightened up and restocked the shelves with toiletries.

Connor was waiting in the hallway when he emerged from his room. Max zipped his coat and shook water out of his black tangles. The nanomail shirt and Cúchulain’s spear were stowed beneath his bed; his hand now cradled a text on Mystics.

“Ready?” asked Connor. “We’ll breeze in a few minutes late—sneak in the back so everyone can’t bug you right away. Cynthia and Lucia have already told everyone to leave you alone.”

“Sounds good.”

“Everything okay? You seem . . . quiet, eh?”

“I’m fine,” said Max, thinking of his mother and the witches’ curse and Bram’s Key. “A lot’s been happening, and I have lots of questions.”

Connor’s face became uncharacteristically thoughtful.

“I heard people asking about Cooper—heard he didn’t come back. Scared me silly, but I was always glad he was on our side, you know?”

Max said nothing and followed Connor down the hallway.

Outside, the morning was bright but muted behind David’s great curtain of mist that rose shimmering above the sea like an earthbound aurora. A sprinkling of snow was on the ground; paths shone black and slick with the marks of many footprints. The plane had been removed, and the piled-up turf had been smoothed down once again. A few tardy students dashed past them, rounding the Manse and making their way through the orchard for the Smithy. Small snowflakes melted on his cheeks while Max paused to watch a group of unfamiliar adults and children stringing holly along the snowbound hedges. A little Chinese girl flapped a red mitten at him as Old Tom chimed nine o’clock. Max smiled and trotted off after Connor, who was hurrying along toward Maggie, tall and gray as she sputtered wisps of chimney smoke.

The Second Year Mystics instructor was Mr. Tavares, a short man with a gray-streaked beard and thick, square glasses. He stood before some thirty students, who were clustered along the lecture hall’s bottom rows studiously copying a diagram on a dusty blackboard. The room smelled heavily of incense and wet boots; its walls were etched with strange symbols that thrummed and simmered with quiet energy. Max saw a hand wave from the back row; Cynthia, Lucia, and Sarah beckoned them over.

Mr. Tavares glanced up at Max, causing the other students to crane their necks and stare at him. Clearing his throat, the man hastily resumed.

“Now that you’ve copied Solomon’s Circle, can anyone tell me what it’s for?”

Rolf Luger shot his hand in the air.

“Protection against elemental spirits, greater imps, and minor demons. Duration is short—only one hour—but the summoner is not required to maintain eye contact with the summoned being.”

“Very good, Mr. Luger,” said the teacher curtly. “And why might one wish to summon one of the aforementioned spirits?”

“Any number of reasons,” said a girl with black braids. “To send messages, acquire information, or bind it within an item to enhance its properties.”

“Sounds lovely,” said the instructor. “What’s the downside?”

Connor raised his hand.

“A spirit can sometimes possess the one who summoned it. Using a summoned spirit for evil purposes increases the likelihood of such an outcome. Sloppy inscriptions and hasty contracts can also result in bad, bad things. Famous examples of misguided summonings include Dr. Faustus, Madam Lurie, and the Mad Dey of Oran.”

Max frowned and thought of David in the healing ward. He wondered why David had failed to summon Astaroth and consequently been punished; it had seemed there was nothing beyond David’s reach. He raised his hand; the teacher looked at him in surprise.

“Yes, Mr. McDaniels?”

“What does it take to summon a major spirit?” he asked. “A Spirit Perilous?”

“Hmmm,” replied the teacher, tugging thoughtfully at his beard. “Where did you hear that old term? I don’t think anyone’s tried for some time. They were called Spirits Perilous for good reason, however. The last person I can think of to do something like that would have been Elias Bram, and then only those at the weaker end of the spectrum.”

“But why?” asked Max, ignoring the many eyes upon him. “I mean, if the incantations and instructions are there, why wouldn’t someone be able to do it?”

“Ah,” said Mr. Tavares, “you’ve missed quite a bit this term, McDaniels. Perhaps one of your classmates can answer your question.”

“The incantation only
contacts
the spirit,” explained Cynthia patiently. “It’s the power of the summoner that ultimately compels the spirit to come. If it’s not compelled—”

Connor jumped in, interrupting Cynthia.

“If it ain’t compelled, the spirit might show and clip the sorry blaggard or just let the poor chancer be. Most spirits won’t bother with a thick summons since they’re blow-ins to these parts and makin’ a show can tie their knickers in a bunch.”

Giggles ensued; Mr. Tavares sighed and tapped his foot while a grin spread across Connor’s mischievous features.

“In English, please, Mr. Lynch.”

“Of course,” said Connor, sitting up and clearing his throat. “Most spirits are not native to this world, sir, and thus won’t bother punishing an ill-advised summons, as the required manifestation might cause considerable pain and distress.”

More giggles.

“Thank you, Mr. Lynch,” replied the apparently unflappable Mr. Tavares, who moved on to efficient dismissals of properly summoned spirits.

Max had many more questions but kept them bottled up while he borrowed paper and a pen from Cynthia. With careful strokes, he copied the diagram on the board.

By the end of the afternoon, Max had borrowed a great deal of paper. Second Year classes were significantly more challenging than those of the previous year. In a matter of weeks, it seemed Max had fallen far, far behind his peers on everything ranging from geometry and chemistry to ancient civilizations and poetry. Throughout the afternoon, he tried to pay attention, but he often found his gaze drifting to the floorboards where, deep below, Bram’s mysterious Key was stowed, subject no doubt to the unblinking scrutiny of hunched, whispering scholars. He pictured its silver curves and intricate system of smooth-swinging rings, a masterly bit of craftsmanship. Puzzling over the sort of lock it might fit, Max played Bram’s Riddle over and over in his mind.

Connor walked alongside him, whistling softly as they meandered past gas lamps that began to glow in the deepening dusk to light the icy walkways. Snow drifted down, slow and steady, like tiny stars falling from the firmament.

“Christmas is coming,” said Connor suddenly.

“Hmmm?” said Max, startled from his thoughts.

“Christmas,” repeated Connor, kicking snow from the base of a lamppost. “It makes me glad, is all—eggnog and songs and twinkling lights. Stupid, I know, but it’s true.”

“No,” said Max slowly, “it’s not stupid at all. What do you want for Christmas?”

“A kiss from Lucia,” said Connor, laughing. “Without the help of her stupid frog!”

Max laughed, and it suddenly seemed as though all the hopelessness and despair and sorrow were lifted from his heart. He breathed deep, letting the cold air tingle his nose. Tilting back his head, he gazed up at the evening sky and its faint stars. He felt a sudden urge to rise high, high among them.

“And what do you want, Max? What can jolly old Saint Nick bring you?”

Max thought of his mother and Cooper and Astaroth’s white face and its malevolent smile. He thought of the silver sphere in the Archives and the hidden Book of Thoth.

“Answers,” said Max.

“You know I can help you with that,” said Connor, lowering his voice as they passed several teachers on the Manse’s front steps. The great doors, resplendent with their deep carvings, were now hung with silver bells that jingled as Max pulled them open. The two boys ducked into the warm foyer, where there was light and noise and the promise of dinner.